SCOTT 


I'npyiiglit.    Ellidtl    &    Fry 
CARLYLE 


THE  BEST 
of  the 

World's  Classics 

RESTRICTED  TO  PROSE 


HENRY  CABOT  LODGE 

Editor-in-Chief 

FRANCIS  W.  HALSEY 

Associate    Editor 

With  an  Introduction,  Biographical  and 
Explanatory  Notes,  etc. 

IN   TEN   VOLUMES 

Vol.    V 
GREAT    BRITAIN   AND    IRELAND— III 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   AND    LONDON 


11" iiiiinniiiiiiHi 


Cori  i;i(:  iiT.    li»o9.   itv 

FTNK   it    WACXALLS    COMPANY 

lPriiif<-d   ill    Ihc    Viiitrd   States   of   A  iiirrini] 


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Pl\f 

The  Best  of  the  World's  Classics 

VOL.  V 

GREAT  BRITAIN  AND 
IRELAND— III 

1740—1881 


CONTENTS 


Vol.  V — Great  Britain  and  Ireland — III 

Page 
James   Boswell — (Born   in    1740,   died   in 
1795.) 
I  Boswell's    Introduction    to    Johnson. 
(From  Boswell's   ''Life   of  John- 
son")              3 

n  Johnson's  Audience  with  George  III. 
(From  Boswell's  "Life  of  John- 
son")              8 

III  The   MeetinsT  of   Johnson    and    John 

Wilkes.     (>rom  Boswell 's  ' '  Life  of 
Johnson") 15 

IV  Johnson's  Wedding-Day.    (From  Bos- 

well's "Life  of  Johnson")      .      .       21 
William  Wordswortk — (Born  in  1770,  died 
in  1850.) 
A  Poet  Defined.     (From  the  Preface 
to  the  second  edition  of  "Lyrical 

Ballads") 23 

Sir  Walter  Scott — (Born  in  1771,  died  in 
1832.) 
I  The  Arrival  of  the  Master  of  Ravens- 
wood.     (From  Chapter  XXXIII  of 
"The  Bride  of  Lammermoor")     .       31 
n  The  Death  of  Meg  Merriles.     (From 

Chapter  LV  of  "  Guy  Mannering")       35 
in  A  Vision  of  Rob  Roy.     (From  Chap- 
ter XXIII  of  "Rob  Roy")     .     .       40 
IV  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Amy  Robsart  at 

Kenilworth.    (From  "Keuilworth")       48 

V 


CONTENTS 


Page 
V  The  Illness  and  Death  of  Lady  Scott. 

(From  Scott's  "Journal")      .     .       62 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge — (Born  in  1772, 
died  in  1834.) 
I  Does  Fortune  Favor  Fools?     (From 

"A    Sailor's   Fortune")       ...       70 
II  The   Dest-ny    of   the   United    States. 

(From   the   "Table   Talk")     .     .       76 
Robert  Southey — (Born  in  1774,  died  in 
1843.) 
Nelson's  Death  at  Trafalgar.     (From 
the    "Life    of   Nelson")     ...       80 
Walter   Savage   Landor — (Born  in   1775, 
died  in  1864.) 

I  The  Death  of  Hofer 87 

n  Napoleon  and  Pericles 91 

Charles    Lamb — (Born    in    1775,    died    in 
1834.) 
I  Dream  Children — A  Reverie.     (From 

the    "Essays    of    Elia")      ...       93 
II  Poor  Relations.     (From  the  "Essays 

of  E  1  i  a  ") 99 

III  The  Origin  of  Roast  Pig.     (From  the 

"Essays  of  Elia") 102 

IV  That  We  Should  Rise  with  the  Lark. 

(From  the  "Essays  of  EUa")      .     107 
William  Hazlitt — (Born  in  1778,  died  in 
1830.) 
Hamlet.     (From  the  "Characters  of 
Shakespeare's    Plays")       .      .      .     Ill 
Thomas  De  Quincey — (Born  in  1785,  died 
in  1859.) 
I  Dreams  of  an  Opium-Eater.     (From 


CONTENTS 


Page 

the    "Confessions    of   an   Euglish 

Opium-Eater") 115 

II  Joan  of  Are.     (From  the  "Biograph- 
ical and  Historical  Essays")     .      .     123 
ni  Charles  Lamb.     (From  the  "Literary 

Reminiscences") 128 

Lord  Byron— (Born  in  1788,  died  in  1824.) 
I  Of  His  Mother's  Treatment  of  Him. 

(A  letter  to  his  half-sister,  Augusta)     134 
II  To   His   Wife   after   the    Separation. 

(A   letter  written   in   Italy)      .      .     138 

III  To  Sir  Walter  Scott.  (A  letter  written 

in  Italy) 140 

IV  Of  Art  and  Nature  as  Poetical  Sub- 

jects.     (From    the    "Reply    to 

Bowles") 143 

Percy    Bysshe    Shelley — (Born    in    1792, 
died  in  1822.) 
I  In    Defense    of   Poetry.      (From    an 

essay  written  some  time  in  1820-21)     151 
II  The  Baths  of  Caracalla.     (From  a  let- 
ter iG  Thomas  Love  Peacock)     .      .     155 
III  The  ruins  of  Pompeii.     (A  letter  to 

Thomas    Love    Peacock)       .      .      .     158 
George  Grote — (Born  in  1794,  died  in  1871.) 
I  The  Mutilation  of  the  HermaB.    (From 
Chapter  LVIII  of  the  "History  of 

Greece") 165 

II  If    Alexander    Had    Lived.       (From 
Chapter  XCIV  of  the  "History  of 

Greece") 172 

Thomas  Carlyle — (Born  in  1795,  died  in 
1881.) 
I  Charlotte  Corday.    (From  the  "His- 
tory of  the  French  Revolution")     179 

vii 


CONTENTS 


Page 
n  The  Blessedness  of  Work.      (From 

"Past    and    Present")      ...     187 
in  Cromwell.       (From     ''Heroes     and 
Hero-Worsliip,  and  the  Heroic  in 

History") 190 

IV  In    Praise    of    Those    Who     Toil. 

(From  "Sartor  Resartus")     .      .     201 
V  The   Certainty   of   Justice.      (From 

"Past  and  Present")     ....     202 
VI  The  Greatness  of  Scott.     (From  the 
essay    on    Lockhart's    "Life    of 

Scott") 206 

VII  Boswell  and  His  Book.  (From  the 
essay  on  Croker's  edition  of  Bos- 
well)     214 

Vril  Might    Burns    Have    Been    Saved? 

(From  the  essay  on  Burns)      .      .     223 
Lord   Macaulat — (Born   in   1800,   died  in 
1859.) 
I  Puritans  and  Royalists.     (From  the 

essay   on    Milton) 233 

II  Cromwell's  Army.     (From  Chapter  I 

of  the  "History  of  England")      .     238 
in  The  Opening  of  the  Trial  of  Warren 
Hastings.    (From  the  essay  on  Has- 
tings)    . 244 

IV  The  Gift  of  Athens  to  Man.     (From 
the  essay  on  Mitf ord  's  ' '  History  of 

Greece") 248 

V  The  Pathos  of  Byron's  Life.  (From 
the  essay  on  Moore's  "Life  of 
Byron") 251 


vn\ 


GREAT  BRITAIN  AND 
IRELAND— III 


1740—1881 


V— I 


JAMES  BOSWELL 

Dorn  in  1740,  died  iu  1795;  son  of  a  Scottish  judge;  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  176C;  recorder  of  Carliile  lu  1788; 
removed  to  London  in  1789;  visited  CorBica  in  1766;  flrBt 
met  Dr.  Johnson  in  1768;  went  with  him  to  the  Hebrldei 
in   1773;    published  Lis   "Life   of  Johnson"    in   1701. 


BOSWELL'S  INTRODUCTION  TO  DR. 
JOHNSON^ 

Mr.  Thomas  Davies  tho  actor,  who  then  kept 
a  bookseller's  shop  in  Russell  street,  Coveut  Grar- 
den,  told  me  that  Johnson  was  very  much  his 
friend,  and  came  frequently  to  his  house,  where 
he  more  than  once  invited  me  to  meet  him;  but 
by  some  unlucky  accident  or  other  he  was  pre- 
vented from  coming  to  us. 

Mr.  Thomas  Davies  was  a  man  of  good  under- 
standing and  talents,  with  the  advantage  of  a 
liberal  education.  Tho  somewhat  pompous,  he 
was  an  entertaining  companion ;  and  his  literary 
performances  have  no  inconsiderable  share  of 
Doerit.  He  was  a  friendly  and  very  hospitable 
man.  Both  he  and  his  wife  (who  has  been  cele- 
brated for  her  beauty),  tho  upon  the  stage  for 
many  years,  maintained  a  uniform  decency  of 
character;  and  Johnson  esteemed  them,  and  lived 
in  as  easy  an  intimacy  with  them  as  with  any 
family  which  he  used  to  visit.     Mr.  Davies  ree- 

xprom  Boswell'B  "Life  of  Johnson." 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

ollected  several  of  Johnson's  remarkable  say- 
ings, and  was  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  imita- 
tors of  his  voice  and  manner,  while  relating  them. 
He  increased  my  impatience  more  and  more  to 
see  the  extraordinary  man  whose  works  I  highly 
valued,  and  whose  conversation  was  reported  to 
be  so  peculiai'ly  excellent. 

At  last,  on  Monday  the  16th  of  May,  when  I 
was  sitting  in  Mr.  Davies'  back  parloi-,  after  hav- 
ing drunk  tea  with  him  and  Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson 
unexpectedly  came  into  the  shop ;  and  Mr.  Davies 
having  perceived  him  through  the  glass  door  in 
the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting,  advancing 
toward  us,  he  announced  his  awful  approach  to 
me,  somewhat  in  the  manner  of  an  actor  in  the 
part  of  Horatio,  when  he  addresses  Hamlet  on 
the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost — ''Look,  my 
lord,  it  comes."  I  found  that  I  had  a  very 
perfect  idea  of  Johnson 's  figure  from  the  portrait 
of  him  painted  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  soon  after 
he  had  published  his  Dictionary,  in  the  attitude 
of  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  in  deep  meditation; 
which  was  the  first  picture  his  friend  did  for  him, 
which  Sir  Joshua  very  kindly  presented  to  me, 
and  from  which  an  engra^dng  has  been  made  for 
this  work.  Mr.  Davies  mentioned  my  name,  and 
respectfully  introduced  me  to  him.  I  was  much 
agitated,  and  recollecting  his  prejudice  against 
the  Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard  much,  I  said 
to  Davies,  "Don't  tell  where  I  came  from." 
"From  Scotland,"  cried  Davies,  roguishly.  "Mr. 
Johnson"  (said  I),  "I  do  indeed  come  from 
Scotland,  but  I  can  not  help  it."  I  am  willing 
to  flatter  myself  that  I  meant  this  as  light  pleas- 
antry to  soothe  and  conciliate  him,  and  not  as 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


an  humiliating  abasement  at  the  expense  of  my 
country.  But  however  that  might  be,  ihis  speech 
was  somewhat  unlucky;  for  with  that  quickness 
of  wit  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable,  he  seized 
the  expression  "come  from  Scotland,"  which  I 
used  in  the  sense  of  being  of  that  country;  and 
as  if  I  had  said  that  I  had  come  away  from  it, 
or  left  it,  retorted,  *  *  That,  sir,  I  find  is  what  a  very 
grreat  many  of  your  countrymen  can  not  help." 
This  stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal;  and  when 
he  had  sat  down,  I  felt  m3'self  not  a  little  em- 
barrassed, and  apprehensive  of  what  might  comfi 
next.  He  then  addrest  himself  to  Davies:  **What 
do  you  think  of  Garrick?  He  has  refused  me  an 
order  for  the  play  of  Miss  Williams,  because  he 
knows  the  house  will  be  full,  and  that  an  order 
"Would  be  worth  three  shillings."  Eager  to  take 
any  opening  to  get  into  conversation  with  him, 
I  ventured  to  say,  "Oh,  sir,  I  can  not  think  Mr, 
Garrick  would  grudge  such  a  trifle  to  you.'* 
"Sir"  (said  he,  with  a  stern  look),  "I  have 
known  David  Garrick  longer  than  you  have  done; 
and  I  know  no  right  you  have  to  talk  to  me  on 
the  subject."  Perhaps  I  deserved  this  check; 
for  it  was  rather  presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire 
stranger,  to  express  any  doubt  of  the  justice  of 
his  animadversion  upon  his  old  acquaintance  and 
pupil.  I  now  felt  myself  much  mortified,  and 
began  to  think  that  the  hope  which  I  had  long 
indulged  of  obtaining  his  acquaintance  was 
blasted.  And  in  truth,  liad  not  my  ardor  been 
uncommonly  strong,  and  my  resolution  nncora- 
monly  persevering,  so  rough  a  reception  might 
have  deten'ed  me  forever  from  makijog  any  fur- 
ther  attempts.    .    .    . 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

I  was  highly  pleased  with  the  extraordinai^ 
ngoi  of  ais  conversation,  and  regretted  that  1 
was  drawn  away  from  it  by  an  engagement  at 
anotiier  place.  I  had  for  a  part  of  the  evening 
been  left  alone  with  him,  and  had  ventured  to 
make  an  observation  now  and  then,  which  he 
received  very  civilly;  so  that  I  was  satisfied  that 
tho  there  was  a  roughness  in  his  manner,  there 
was  no  ill-nature  in  his  disposition.  Davies  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  door,  and  when  I  complained  to 
bim  a  little  of  the  hard  blows  which  the  great 
man  had  given  me,  he  kindly  took  npon  him  to 
«5onsole  me  by  saying,  "Don't  be  uneasy.  I  can 
see  he  likes  you  very  well. ' ' 

A.  few  days  afterward  I  called  on  Davies,  and 
asked  him  if  he  thought  I  might  take  the  liberty 
of  waiting  on  Mr.  Johnson  at  his  chambers  in 
the  Temple.  He  said  1  certainly  might,  and  that 
ilr.  Johnson  would  take  it  as  a  compliment.  So 
on  Tuesday  the  24th  of  May,  after  having  been 
enlivened  by  the  witty  sallies  of  Messieurs  Thorn- 
ton, Wilkes,  Churchill,  and  Lloyd,  with  whom  I 
had  passed  the  morning,  I  boldly  repaired  to 
Johnson.  His  chambers  were  on  the  first  floor  of 
No.  1,  Inner  Temple  Lane,  and  I  entered  them 
with  an  impression  given  me  by  the  Rev. 
Dr.  Blair,*  of  Edinburgh,  who  had  been  intro- 
duced to  him  not  long  before,  and  described  his 
having  * 'found  the  giant  in  his  den";  an  ex- 
pression which,  when  1  came  to  be  pretty  well 
acquainted  with  Johnson,  I  repeated  to  him,  and 
he  was  diverted  at  this  picturesque  account  of 
himself.     Dr.  Blair  had  been  presented  to  him 

•The  author  of  the  "Lec-tnreB  on  Ehetorio,"  who  wsa 
born  in  1718  and  died  In  1800. 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


by  Dr.  James  Fordyce.  At  this  time  the  con- 
troversy concerning  the  pieces  published  by  Mr. 
James  Macpherson  as  translations  of  Ossian  was 
at  its  height.  Johnson  had  all  along  denied  their 
authenticity;  and  what  was  still  more  provoking 
to  their  admirers,  maintained  that  they  had  no 
merit.  The  subject  having  been  introduced  by 
Dr.  Fordyce,  Dr.  Blair,  relying  on  the  internal 
evidence  of  their  antiquity,  asked  Dr.  Johnson 
•whether  he  thought  any  man  of  a  modern  age 
could  have  written  such  poems.  Johnson  replied, 
"Yes,  sir,  many  men,  many  women,  and  many 
children."  Johnson,  at  this  time,  did  not  know 
that  Dr.  Blair  had  just  published  a  Dissertation, 
not  only  defending  their  authenticity,  but  se- 
riously ranking  them  with  the  poems  of  Homer 
and  Virgil;  and  when  he  was  afterward  informed 
of  this  circumstance,  he  exprest  some  displeasure 
at  Dr.  Fordyce 's  having  suggested  the  topic,  and 
said,  "I  am  not  sorry  that  they  got  thus  much 
for  their  pains.  Sir,  it  was  like  leading  one  to 
talk  of  a  book  when  the  author  is  concealed  be- 
hind the  door." 

He  received  me  vei-y  courteously;  but  it  must 
be  confest  that  his  apartment  and  furniture  and 
morning  dress  were  suflficiently  uncouth.  His 
brown  suit  of  clothes  looked  very  rusty;  he  had 
on  a  little  shriveled  unpowdered  wig,  which  was 
too  small  for  his  head;  his  shirt-neck  and  the 
knees  of  his  breeches  were  loose;  his  black  worsted 
stockings  ill  drawn  up;  and  he  had  a  pair  of  un- 
buckled shoes  by  way  of  slippers.  But  all  these  slov- 
enly particularities  were  forgotten  the  moment  that 
he  began  to  talk.  Some  gentlemen,  whom  I  do 
not  recollect,  were  sitting  with  him;  and  when 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

they  went  away,  I  also  rose;  but  he  said  to  me, 
"Nay,  don't  go."  "Sir"  (said  I),  "I  am  afraid 
that  I  intrude  upon  you.  It  is  benevolent  to  allow 
me  to  sit  and  hear  you."  He  seemed  pleased 
with  this  compliment,  which  I  sincerely  paid  him, 
and  answered,  "Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  any  man 
who  visits  me." 


n 

JOHNSON'S  AUDIENCE  WITH  GEORGE 
III* 

Ik  February,  17G7,  there  happened  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  incidents  of  Johnson's  life, 
which  gratified  his  monarchical  enthusiasm,  and 
■which  he  loTed  to  relate  with  all  its  circum- 
stances, when  requested  bj'  his  friends.  This  was 
kis  being  honored  by  a  private  conversation  with 
his  Majesty,  in  the  library  at  the  Queen's  house. 
He  had  frequently  visited  those  splendid  rooms 
imd  noble  collection  of  books,  which  he  used  to 
say  was  more  numerous  and  curious  than  he  sup- 
posed any  person  could  have  made  in  the  time 
whick  the  King  had  employed.  Mr.  Barnard,  the 
librarian,  took  care  that  he  should  have  every 
accommodation  that  could  contribute  to  bis  ease 
and  conveniance,  while  indulging  his  literary  taste 
In  that  place;  so  that  he  had  here  a  very  agree- 
able resource  at  leisure  hours. 

His  Majesty,  having  been  informed  of  his  ocoa- 
flonal  visits,  was  pleased  to  signify  a  deadre  that 

»From  BosweD'*  "Life  of  JohneoBL" 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


he  ahouJd  be  told  when  Dr.  Johnson  came  next 
to  the  library.  Accordingly,  the  next  tinae  that 
Johnson  did  come,  as  soon  as  he  was  fairly  en- 
gaged with  the  book,  on  which,  while  he  sat  by 
the  Are,  he  seemed  quite  intent,  Mr.  Barnard 
stole  round  to  the  apartment  where  the  King  was, 
and  in  obedience  to  his  Majesty's  commands  men- 
tioned that  Dr.  Johnson  was  then  in  the  library. 
His  Majesty  said  that  he  was  at  leisure,  and 
would  go  to  him;  upon  which  Mi*.  Barnard  took 
one  of  the  candles  that  stood  on  the  King's  table 
and  lighted  his  Majesty  through  a  suite  of  rooms, 
till  they  came  to  a  private  door  into  the  library 
of  which  his  Majesty  had  the  key.  Being  entered, 
Mr.  Barnard  slept  forward  hastily  to  Dr.  John- 
son, who  was  still  in  a  profound  study,  and  whis- 
pered him,  "Sir,  here  is  the  King."  Johnson 
started  up,  and  stood  still.  His  Majesty  ap- 
proached him,  and  at  once  was  courteously  easy. 
His  Majesty  began  by  observing  that  he  under- 
stood he  came  sometimes  to  the  library;  and  then 
mentioned  his  having  heard  that  the  Doctor  had 
been  lately  at  Oxford,  and  asked  him  if  he  was 
not  fond  of  going  thither.  To  which  Johnson 
answered  that  he  was  indeed  fond  of  going  to 
Oxford  sometimes,  but  was  likewise  glad  to  com© 
back  again.  The  King  then  asked  him  what  they 
were  doing  at  Oxford.  Johnson  answered,  he 
could  not  much  commend  their  diligence,  but  that 
in  some  respect  they  were  mended,  for  they  had 
put  their  press  under  better  regulations,  and  at 
that  time  were  printing  Polybius.  He  was  then 
asked  whether  there  were  better  libraries  at  Ox- 
ford or  Cambridge.  He  answered,  he  believed  the 
Bodleian  was  larger  than  any  they  had  at  Cam- 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

bridge;  at  the  same  time  adding,  "I  hope, 
whether  we  have  more  books  or  not  than  they 
have  at  Cambridge,  we  shall  make  as  good  use 
of  them  as  they  do,"  Being  asked  whether  All- 
Souls  or  Christ  Church  library  was  the  largest, 
he  answered,  "All-Souls  library  is  the  largest 
we  have,  except  the  Bodleian."  **Ay"  (said  the 
King),  "that  is  the  public  library." 

His  Majesty  inquired  if  he  was  then  writing 
anything.  He  answered  he  was  not,  for  he  had 
pretty  well  told  the  world  what  he  knew,  and 
must  now  read  to  acquire  more  knowledge.  The 
King,  as  it  should  seem  with  a  view  to  urge  him 
to  rely  on  his  own  stores  as  an  original  writer, 
and  to  continue  his  labors,  then  said,  "I  do  not 
think  you  borrow  much  from  anybody." 

Johnson  said  he  thought  he  had  already  done 
bis  part  as  a  writer.  "I  should  have  thought  so 
too"  (said  the  King),  "if  you  had  not  written 
so  well."  Johnson  observed  to  me,  upon  this, 
that  "No  man  could  have  paid  a  handsomer  com- 
pliment; and  it  was  fit  for  a  king  to  pay.  It 
was  decisive."  When  asked  by  another  friend, 
at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's,  whether  he  made  any 
reply  to  this  high  compliment,  he  answered,  *  *  No, 
sir.  When  the  King  had  said  it,  it  was  to  be  so. 
It  was  not  for  me  to  bandy  civilities  with  my 
Sovereign."  Perhaps  no  man  who  had  spent  his 
whole  life  in  courts  could  have  shown  a  more 
nice  and  dignified  sense  of  true  politeness  than 
Johnson  did  in  this  instance. 

His  Majesty  having  observed  to  him  that  he 
supposed  he  must  have  read  a  good  deal,  Johnson 
answered  that  he  thought  more  than  he  read; 
that  he  had  read  a  great  deal  in  the  early  part 

10 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


of  hi8  life,  but  having  fallen  into  ill  health,  he 
had  not  been  able  to  read  much  compared  with 
others:  for  instance,  he  said,  he  had  not  read 
much  compared  with  Dr.  Warburton.  Upon  which 
the  King  said  that  he  heard  Dr.  Warburton  was 
a  man  of  much  general  knowledge ;  that  you 
could  scarce  talk  with  him  on  any  subject  on 
which  he  was  not  qualified  to  speak:  and  that 
his  learning  resembled  Garrick's  acting  in  its 
universality.  His  Majesty  then  talked  of  the 
controversy  between  Warburton  and  Lowth, 
which  he  seemed  to  have  read,  and  asked  Johnson 
what  he  thought  of  it.  Johnson  answered,  "War- 
burton has  the  most  general,  most  scholastic 
learning;  Lowth  is  the  more  correct  scholar.  I 
do  not  know  which  of  them  calls  names  best." 
The  King  was  pleased  to  say  he  was  of  the  same 
opinion:  adding,  ''You  do  not  think  then.  Dr. 
Johnson,  that  there  was  much  argument  in  the 
case?"  Johnson  said  he  did  not  think  there  was. 
"Why,  truly"  (said  the  King),  ''when  once  it 
comes  to  calling  names,  argument  is  pretty  well 
at  an  end." 

His  Majesty  then  asked  him  what  he  thought 
of  Lord  Lyttelton's  history,  which  was  just  then 
published.  Johnson  said  he  thought  his  style 
pretty  good,  but  that  he  had  blamed  Henry  the 
Second  rather  too  much.  "Why"  (said  the 
King),  "they  seldom  do  these  things  by  halves." 
"No,  sir"  (answered  Johnson),  "not  to  kings." 
But  fearing  to  be  misunderstood,  he  proceeded  to 
explain  himself;  and  immediately  subjoined, 
"That  for  those  who  spoke  worse  of  kings  than 
they  deserved,  he  could  find  no  excuse;  but  that 
he  could  more  easily  conceive  how  some  one  might 

U 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

speak  better  of  them  than  they  deserved,  without 
any  ill  intention :  for  as  kings  had  much  in  their 
power  to  give,  those  who  were  favored  by  them 
would  frequently,  from  gratitude,  exaggerate 
their  praises;  and  as  this  proceeded  from  a  good 
motive,  it  was  certainly  excusable  as  far  as  error 
could  be  excusable." 

The  King  then  asked  him  what  he  thought  of 
Dr.  Hill.  Johnson  answered  that  he  was  an  in- 
genious man,  but  had  no  veracity ;  and  immediate- 
ly mentioned  as  an  instance  of  it  an  assertion  of 
that  writer,  that  he  had  seen  objects  magnified 
to  a  much  greater  degree  by  using  three  or  four 
microscopes  at  a  time  than  by  using  one.  "Now" 
(added  Johnson),  "every  one  acquainted  with 
microscopes  knows  that  the  more  of  them  he  looks 
through,  the  less  the  object  will  appear.'* 
"Why"  (replied  the  King),  "this  is  not  only 
telling  an  untruth,  but  telling  it  clumsily;  for  if 
that  be  the  case,  every  one  who  can  look  through 
a  microscope  will  be  able  to  detect  him." 

"I  now"  (said  Johnson  to  his  friends,  when 
relating  what  had  passed)  "began  to  consider 
that  I  was  depreciating  this  man  in  the  estima- 
tion of  his  Sovereign,  and  thought  it  was  time 
for  me  to  say  something  that  might  be  more 
favorable."  He  added,  therefore,  that  Dr.  Hill 
was  notwithstanding  a  very  curious  observer; 
and  if  he  would  have  been  contented  to  t^ll  the 
world  no  more  than  he  knew,  he  might  have  been 
a  very  considerable  man,  and  needed  not  to  have 
recourse  to  such  mean  expedients  to  raise  his 
reputation. 

The  King  then  talked  of  literary  journals,  men- 
tioned particularly  the  Journal  des  Savants,  and 

12 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


asked  Johnson  if  it  was  well  done.  Johnson  said 
it  was  formerly  very  well  done,  and  gave  some 
account  of  the  persons  who  began  it,  and  carried 
it  on  for  some  years;  enlarging  at  the  same  time 
on  the  nature  and  use  of  such  works.  The  King 
asked  him  if  it  was  well  done  now.  Johnson 
answered  he  had  no  reason  to  think  that  it  was. 
The  King  then  asked  him  if  there  were  any  other 
literary  journals  published  in  this  kingdom  except 
the  Monthly  and  Critical  Reviews;  and  on  being 
answered  there  was  no  other,  his  Majesty  asked 
which  of  them  was  the  best.  Johnson  answered 
that  the  Monthly  Review  was  done  with  most 
care,  the  Critical  upon  the  best  principles;  adding 
that  the  authors  of  the  Monthly  Review  were 
enemies  to  the  Church.  This  the  King  said  he 
was  sorry  to  hear. 

The  conversation  next  turned  on  the  Philo- 
sophical Transactions,  when  Johnson  observed 
that  they  had  now  a  better  method  of  arranging 
their  materials  than  formerly.  "Ay"  (said  the 
King),  ''they  are  obliged  to  Dr.  Johnson  for 
that";  for  his  Majesty  had  heard  and  remem- 
bered the  circumstance,  which  Johnson  himself 
had  forgot. 

His  Majesty  exprest  a  desire  to  have  the  lit- 
erary biography  of  this  country  ably  executed, 
and  proposed  to  Dr.  Johnson  to  undertake  it. 
Johnson  signified  his  readiness  to  comply  with 
his  Majesty's  wishes. 

During  the  whole  of  this  interview,  Johnson 
talked  to  his  Majesty  with  profound  respect,  but 
still  in  his  firm,  manly  manner,  with  a  sonorous 
voice,  and  never  in  that  subdued  tone  which  is 
commonly  used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing- 


13 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

room.  After  the  King  withdi-ew,  Johnson  showed 
himself  highly  pleased  with  his  Majesty's  conver- 
satioa  and  gracious  behavior.  He  said  to  Mr. 
Barnard,  ' '  Sir,  they  may  talk  of  the  King  as  they 
will;  but  he  is  the  finest  gentleman  that  I  have 
ever  seen."  And  he  afterward  observed  to  Mr. 
Langton,  "Sir,  his  manners  are  those  of  as  fine 
a  gentleman  as  we  may  suppose  Lewis  the  Four- 
teenth or  Charles  the  Second." 

At  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's,  where  a  circle  o^ 
Johnson's  friends  were  collected  round  him  to 
hear  his  account  of  this  memorable  conversation, 
Dr.  Joseph  Warton,  in  his  frank  and  lively  man- 
ner, was  very  active  in  pressing  him  to  mention 
the  particulars,  ''Come,  now,  sir,  this  is  an  in- 
teresting matter;  do  favor  us  with  it."  John- 
son, with  great  good  humor,  complied. 

He  told  them:  "I  found  his  Majesty  wished 
I  should  talk,  and  I  made  it  my  business  to  talk. 
I  find  it  does  a  man  good  to  be  talked  to  by  his 
Sovereign.  In  the  first  place,  a  man  can  not  be 
in  a  passion — "  Here  some  question  interrupted 
him;  which  is  to  be  regretted,  as  he  certainly 
would  have  pointed  out  and  illustrated  many  cir- 
cumstances of  advantage,  from  being  in  a  situa- 
tion where  the  powers  of  the  mind  are  at  once 
excited  to  vigorous  exei'tiou  and  tempered  by 
reverential  awe. 


1ft 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


m 

THE  MEETING  OF  DR.  JOHNSON  AND 
JOHN  WILKES* 

I  AM  now  to  record  a  very  curious  incident  in  Dr. 
Johnson's  life  which  fell  under  my  own  obsei'va- 
tion ;  of  which  pars  magna  fui,  and  which  I  am 
persuaded  will,  with  the  liberal-minded,  be  much 
to  hfe  credit. 

My  desire  of  being  acquainted  with  celebrated 
men  of  every  description  had  made  me,  much 
about  the  same  time,  obtain  an  introduction  to 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  and  to  John  Wilkes,  Esq. 
Two  men  more  different  could  perhaps  not  be 
selected  out  of  all  mankind.  They  had  even  at- 
tacked one  another  with  some  asperity  in  their 
writing:s;  yet  I  lived  in  habits  of  friendship  with 
both.  I  could  fully  relish  the  excellence  of  each ; 
for  I  have  ever  delighted  in  that  intellectual 
chemistry  which  can  separate  good  qualities  from 
evil  in  the  same  person. 

My  worthy  booksellers  and  friends.  Messieurs 
Dilly  in  the  Poultry,  at  whose  hospitable  and 
well-covered  table  I  have  seen  a  greater  number 
of  literary  men  than  at  any  other  except  that  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  had  invited  me  to  meet  Mr. 
Wilkes  and  some  more  gentlemen  on  Wednesday, 

•From  Boewell's  "Life  of  Johnson."  Wilkes  was  the 
famous  publicist  and  political  agitator  who  was  pxpelled 
from  Parliament,  imprisoned  and  outlawed,  but  afterward 
elected  Lord  Mayor  of  London  and  allowed  to  sit  in  Parlia- 
ment    many   years. 

15 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

May  15th.  *'Pray"  (said  I),  "let  us  have  Dr. 
Johnson."  "What,  with  Mr.  Wilkes?  not  for 
the  world"  (said  Mr.  Edward  Dilly) :  "Dr.  John- 
son would  never  forgive  me."  "Come"  (said  I), 
"if  you'll  let  me  negotiate  for  you,  I  will  be 
answerable  that  all  shall  go  well." 

Dilly:  Nay,  if  you  will  take  it  upon  you,  I  am 
sure  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  them  both  here. 

Notwithstanding  the  high  veneration  which  I 
entertained  for  Dr.  Johnson,  I  was  sensible  that 
he  was  sometimes  a  little  actuated  by  the  spirit 
of  contradiction,  and  by  means  of  that  I  hoped  I 
should  gain  my  point.  I  was  persuaded  that  if 
I  had  come  upon  him  with  a  direct  proposal, 
"Sir,  will  you  dine  in  company  with  Jack 
Wilkes  ?  "  he  would  have  jQown  into  a  passion,  and 
would  probably  have  answered,  "Dine  with  Jack 
Wilkes,  sir!  I'd  as  soon  dine  with  Jack  Ketch." 
I  therefore,  while  we  were  sitting  quietly  by  our- 
selves at  his  house  in  an  evening,  took  occasion 
to  open  my  plan  thus: 

"Mr.  Dilly,  sir,  sends  his  respectful  compli- 
ments to  you,  and  would  be  happy  if  you  would 
do  him  the  honor  to  dine  with  him  on  Wednesday 
next  along  with  me,  as  I  must  soon  go  to 
Scotland." 

Johnson :  Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  Mr.  Dilly.  I  will 
wait  upon  him — 

Boswell:  Provided,  sir,  I  suppose,  that  the 
company  which  he  is  to  have  is  agreeable  to  you. 

Johnson:  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  What  do 
you  take  me  for?  Do  you  think  I  am  so  ignorant 
of  the  world  as  to  imagine  that  I  am  to  prescribe 
to  a  gentleman  what  company  he  is  to  have  at 
his  table? 

1« 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


Boswell:  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  wishing  to 
prevent  you  from  meeting  people  whom  you  might 
not  like.  Perhaps  he  may  have  some  of  what  he 
calls  his  patriotic  friends  with  him. 

Johnson:  Well,  sir,  and  what  tneu?  What  care 
I  for  his  patriotic  friends?     Pohl 

Boswell:  I  should  not  be  surprized  to  find  Jack 
Wilkes  there. 

Johnson:  And  if  Jack  Wilkes  should  be  there, 
what  is  that  to  me,  sir?  My  dear  friend,  let  us 
have  no  more  of  this,  I  am  sorry  to  be  angry 
with  you;  but  really  it  is  treating  me  strangely 
to  talk  to  me  as  if  I  could  not  meet  any  company 
whatever,  occasionally. 

Bostvell:  Pray  forgive  me,  sir:  I  meant  welL 
But  you  shall  meet  whoever  comes,  for  me. 

Thus  I  secured  him,  and  told  Dilly  that  he 
would  find  him  very  well  pleased  to  bo  one  of 
his  guests  on  the  day  appointed. 

Upon  the  much-expected  Wednesday  I  called 
on  him  about  half  an  hour  before  dinner,  as  I 
often  did  when  we  were  to  dine  out  together,  to 
see  that  he  was  ready  in  time,  and  to  accompany 
him.  I  found  him  buffeting  his  books,  -cs  upon 
a  former  occasion,  covered  with  dust,  and  making 
no  preparation  for  going  abroad.  ''How  is  this, 
sir?"  (said  I).  "Don't  you  recollect  that  you  are 
to  dine  at  Mr.  Billy's?" 

Johnson:  Sir,  I  did  not  think  of  going  to 
Billy's:  it  went  out  of  my  head.  I  have  ordered 
dinner  at  home  with  Mrs.  Williams. 

Bosivell:  But,  my  dear  sir,  you  know  yon  were 
engaged  to  Mr.  Billy,  and  I  told  him  so.  He  will 
expect  you,  and  will  be  much  disappointed  if 
you  don't  come. 


V-2  17 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

Johnson:  You  must  talk  to  Mrs.  Williams 
about  this. 

Here  was  a  sad  dilemma.  I  feared  that  what 
I  was  so  confident  I  had  secured,  would  yet  be 
frustrated.  He  had  accustomed  himself  to  show 
Mrs.  Williams  such  a  degree  of  humane  attention 
as  frequently  imposed  some  restraint  upon  him ;  and 
I  knew  that  if  she  should  be  obstinate,  he  would 
not  stir.  I  hastened  down-stairs  to  the  blind 
lady's  room,  and  told  her  I  was  in  great  un- 
easiness, for  Dr.  Johnson  had  engaged  to  me  to 
dine  this  day  at  Mr.  Dilly's,  but  that  he  had  told 
me  he  had  forgotten  his  engagement,  and  had 
ordered  dinner  at  home.  "Yes,  sir"  (said  she, 
pretty  peevishly),  "Dr.  Johnson  is  to  dine  at 
home."  "Madam"  (said  I),  "his  respect  for 
you  is  such  that  I  know  he  will  not  leave 
you,  unless  you  absolutely  desire  it.  But  as 
you  have  so  much  of  his  company,  I  hope 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  forego  it  for 
a  day;  as  Mr.  Dilly  is  a  very  worthy  man, 
has  frequently  had  agreeable  parties  at  his  house 
for  Dr.  Johnson,  and  will  be  vexed  if  the  Doctor 
neglects  him  to-day.  And  then,  madam,  be 
pleased  to  consider  my  situation:  I  carried  the 
message,  and  I  assured  Mr.  Dilly  that  Dr.  John- 
son was  to  come;  and  no  doubt  he  has  made  a 
dinner,  and  invited  a  company,  and  boasted  of 
the  honor  he  expected  to  have.  I  shall  be  quite 
disgraced  if  the  Doctor  is  not  there." 

She  gradually  softened  to  my  solicitations, 
which  were  certainly  as  earnest  as  most  entreaties 
to  ladies  upon  any  occasion,  and  was  graciously 
pleased  to  empower  me  to  tell  Dr.  Johnson  * '  that, 
all  things  considered,  she  thought  he  should  cer- 

18 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


tainly  go."  I  flew  back  to  him,  still  in  dast,  and 
careless  of  what  should  be  the  event,  "indifferent 
in  his  choice  to  go  or  stay";  but  as  soon  as  I 
had  announced  to  him  Mrs.  Williams's  consent, 
he  roared,  "Frank,  a  clean  shirt,"  and  was  very 
Boon  drest.  When  I  had  him  fairly  seated  in  a 
haekney-eoach  with  me,  I  exulted  as  much  as  a 
fortune-hunter  who  has  got  an  heiress  into  a 
post-chaise  with  him  to  set  out  for  Gretna  Greea, 
When  we  entered  Mr.  Dilly's  drawing-room, 
he  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  company  he 
did  not  know.  I  kept  myself  snug  and  silent, 
watching  how  he  would  conduct  himself.  I  ob- 
served him  whispering  to  Mr.  Dilly,  "Who  is 
that  gentleman,  sir?"  "Mr.  Arthur  Lee.'* 
Johnson:  "Too,  too,  too"  (under  his  breath), 
which  was  one  of  his  habitual  mutterings.  Mr. 
Arthur  Lee  could  not  but  be  very  obnoxious  to 
Johnson,  for  he  was  not  only  a  patriot  but  an 
American.  He  was  afterward  minister  from  the 
United  States  at  the  court  of  Madrid.  "And 
who  is  the  gentleman  in  lace?"  "Mr.  Wilkes, 
sir."  This  information  confounded  him  still 
more;  he  had  some  difficulty  to  restrain  himself, 
and  taking  up  a  book,  sat  down  upon  a  window- 
seat  and  read,  or  at  least  kept  his  eye  upon  it 
intently  for  some  time,  till  he  composed  himself. 
His  feelings,  I  dare  say,  were  awkward  enougli. 
But  he  no  doubt  recollected  his  having  rated  me 
for  supposing  that  he  could  be  at  all  disconcerted 
by  any  company,  and  he  therefore  resolutely  set 
himself  to  behave  quite  as  an  easy  man  of  the 
World,  who  could  adapt  himself  at  once  to  the 
disposition  and  manners  of  those  whom  he  might 
chance  to  meet. 


19 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

The  cheering  sound  of  "Dinner  is  upon  the 
table"  dissolved  his  reverie,  and  we  all  sat  down 
without  any  symptom  of  ill-humor.  There  were 
present,  besides  Mr.  Wilkes,  and  Mr.  Arthur  Lee, 
who  was  an  old  companion  of  mine  when  he 
studied  physics  at  Edinburgh,  Mr.  (now  Sir 
John)  Miller,  Dr.  Lettson,  and  Mr.  Slater  the 
druggist.  Mr.  Wilkes  placed  himself  next  to 
Dr.  Johnson,  and  behaved  to  him  with  so  much 
attention  and  politeness  that  he  gained  upon  him 
insensibly.  No  man  ate  more  heartily  than  John- 
son, or  loved  better  what  was  nice  and  delicate, 
Mr.  Wilkes  was  very  assiduous  in  helping  him 
to  some  fine  veal.  ''Pray  give  me  leave,  sir — 
It  is  better  here — A  little  of  the  brown — Some 
fat,  sir — A  little  of  the  stuffing — Some  gravy — 
Let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  some 
butter — Allow  me  to  recommend  a  squeeze  of  this 
orange;  or  the  lemon,  perhaps,  may  have  more 
zest. "  "  Sir,  sir,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir, ' '  cried 
Johnson,  bowing,  and  turning  his  head  to  him 
with  a  look  for  some  time  of  * '  surly  virtue, '  *  but 
in  a  short  while  of  complacency. 


20 


JAMES  BOSWELL 


rv 

JOHNSON'S  WEDDING-DAY" 

Tho  Mrs.  Porter  was  double  the  age  of  John- 
son, and  her  person  and  manner,  as  described  to 
me  by  the  late  Mr.  Garrick,  were  by  no  means 
pleasing  to  others,  she  must  have  had  a  supe- 
riority of  understanding  and  talents,  as  she  cer- 
tainly inspired  him  with  a  more  than  ordinary 
passion;  and  she  having  signified  her  willingness 
to  accept  of  his  hand,  he  went  to  Lichfield  to 
ask  his  mother's  consent  to  the  marriage,  which 
he  could  not  but  be  conscious  was  a  very  im- 
prudent scheme,  both  on  account  of  their  dis- 
parity of  years,  and  her  want  of  fortune.  But 
Mrs.  Johnson  knew  too  well  the  ardor  of  her 
son's  temper,  and  was  too  tender  a  parent  to 
oppose  his  inclinations. 

I  know  not  for  what  reason  the  marriage  cere- 
mony was  not  performed  at  Birmingham;  but  a 
resolution  was  taken  that  it  should  be  at  Derby, 
for  which  place  the  bride  and  bridegroom  set 
out  on  horseback,  I  suppose  in  very  good  humor. 
But  tho  Mr.  Topham  Beauclerk  used  archly  to 
mention  Johnson 's  having  told  him,  with  much 
gravity,  "Sir,  it  was  a  love  marriage  on  both 
sides,"  I  have  had  from  my  illustrious  friend 
the  following  curious  account  of  their  journey 
to  church  upon  the  nuptial  morn  (9th  July) : 

"Sir,  she  had  read  the  old  romances,  and  had 

•From  Boswell's  "Life  of  Johnson."  Johnson  was  mar- 
ried in  1734,  when  his  age  was  twenty-five. 

21 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

got  into  her  head  the  fantastical  notion  that  a 
woman  of  spii-it  should  use  her  lover  like  a  dog. 
So,  sir,  at  first  she  told  me  that  I  rode  too  fast, 
and  she  could  not  keep  up  with  me;  and,  when 
I  rode  a  little  slower,  she  passed  me,  and  com- 
plained that  I  lagged  behind.  I  was  not  to  be 
made  the  slave  of  caprice;  and  I  resolved  to 
begin  as  I  meant  to  end.  I  therefore  pushed  on 
briskly,  till  I  was  fairly  out  of  her  sight.  The 
road  lay  between  two  hedges,  so  I  was  sure  she 
could  not  miss  it;  and  I  contiived  that  she  should 
soon  come  up  with  me.  When  she  did,  I  observed 
her  to  be  in  tears." 

This,  it  must  be  allowed,  was  a  singular  be- 
ginning of  connubial  felicity;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that  Johnson,  tho  he  thus  showed  a  manly 
fii-mness,  proved  a  most  affectionate  and  indul- 
gent husband  to  the  last  moment  of  Mrs.  John- 
son's life:  and  in  his  "Prayers  and  Medita- 
tions," we  find  very  remarkable  evidence  that 
his  regard  and  fondness  for  her  never  ceased, 
even  after  her  death. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Born  In  1770;  died  in  1850;  graduated  from  Cambridge 
in  1791;  traveled  on  the  Continent  in  1790-92;  settled 
at  Orasmere  in  1799;  married  Mary  Hutchinson  in  1802; 
settled  at  Rydal  Mount  in  1813;  traveled  in  Scotland  in 
1814  and  in  1832;  traveled  on  the  Continent  again  in  ld20 
and  in  1837;  became  poet  laureate  in  1843;  published  hli 
first  volume  in  1793  and  his  last,  "The  Prelude,"  in  1850. 


A  POET  DEFINED* 

Taking  up  the  subject  upon  general  grounds, 
I  ask  what  is  meant  by  the  word  Poet?  What 
is  a  poet?  To  whom  does  he  address  himself? 
And  what  lau^iage  is  to  be  expected  from  him? 
He  is  a  man  speaking  to  men:  a  man,  it  is  true, 
endued  with  more  lively  sensibility,  more  enthusi- 
asm and  tenderness,  who  has  a  greater  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  and  a  more  comprehensive  soul, 
than  are  supposed  to  be  common  among  man- 
kind ;  a  man  pleased  with  his  own  passions  and 
volitions,  and  who  rejoices  more  than  other  men 
in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  him;  delighting 

1  From  tho  famous  "Preface"  to  the  second  edition  of 
"Lyrical  Ballads,"  publifhed  in  1  00.  The  poems  in  the 
first  edition  of  "Lyrical  Ballads."  published  in  1798,  had 
been  the  joint  production  of  Wordsworth  and  Ooleridgre.  The 
volume  was  publiehcd  in  Bristol  by  Cottle.  It  met  with  a 
cold,  if  not  scoffing,  reception,  altho  among  its  contents  were 
the  '"Lines  Written  Above  Tintern  Abbey."  When  Cottle's 
publishing  business  was  transferred  to  Longmans  in  1799, 
the  value  of  the  copyright  of  "Lyrical  Ballads,"   for  whicli 

23 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

to  contemplate  similar  volitions  and  passions  as 
manifested  in  the  goings  on  of  the  universe,  and 
habitually  impelled  to  create  them  where  he  does 
not  find  them.  To  these  qualities  he  has  added 
a  disposition  to  be  affected  more  than  other  men 
by  absent  things  as  if  they  were  present;  an 
ability  of  conjuring  up  in  himself  passions,  which 
are  indeed  far  from  being  the  same  as  those 
produced  by  real  events,  yet  especially  in  those 
parts  of  the  general  sympathy  which  are  pleasing 
and  delightful  do  more  nearly  resemble  the  pas- 
sions produced  by  real  events  than  anything 
which,  from  the  motions  of  their  own  minds  mere- 
ly, other  men  are  accustomed  to  feel  in  them- 
selves; whence,  and  from  practise,  he  has  ac- 
quired a  greater  readiness  and  power  in  ex- 
pressing what  he  thinks  and  feels,  and  especially 
those  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  by  his  own 
choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his  own  mind, 
arise  in  him  without  immediate  external  excite- 
ment. 

But  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may 
suppose  even  the  greatest  poet  to  possess,  there 
can  not  be  a  doubt  but  that  the  langi;age  which 
it   will  suggest   to  him   must,   in   liveliness   and 

Cottle  had  paid  the  authors  30  guineas,  was  estimated  at 
nothing.  Cottle  then  presented  the  copyright  to  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge.  Wordsworth,  meanwhile,  had  written  other 
poems  and  Longmans  offered  him  £100  for  a  new  and  en- 
larged edition  of  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  restricted  to  his  own 
verse  and  to  which  Wordsworth  was  to  contribute  an  ex- 
planatory preface,  the  same  being  the  "Preface"  which 
aroused  a  controversy  now  historical  in  the  history  of  Eng- 
lish poetry.  Critics  were  deeply  incensed  at  Wordsworth's 
defense  of  hie  own  poems.  The  "Preface"  was  a  revolution- 
ary proclamatiorv  against  the  taste  in  poetry  which  had  beea 
established  in  a  previous  century. 

24 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


truth,  fall  far  short  of  that  which  is  uttered  by 
men  in  real  life,  under  the  actual  pressure  of 
those  passions,  certain  shadows  of  which  the 
poet  thus  produces,  or  feels  to  be  produced,  in 
himself. 

However  exalted  a  notion  we  would  wish  to 
cherish  of  the  character  of  the  poet,  it  is  obvious 
that,  while  he  describes  and  imitates  passions, 
his  situation  is  altogether  slavish  and  mechanical, 
compared  with  the  freedom  and  power  of  real 
and  substantial  action  and  suffering.  So  that  it 
will  be  the  wish  of  the  poet  to  bring  his  feelings 
near  to  those  of  the  persons  whose  feelings  he 
describes,  nay,  for  short  spaces  of  time,  perhaps, 
to  let  himself  slip  into  an  entire  delusion,  and 
even  confound  and  identify  his  own  feelings  with 
theirs ;  modifying  only  the  language  which  is  thus 
suggested  to  him  by  a  consideration  that  he 
describes  for  a  particular  purpose,  that  of  giving 
pleasure.  Here,  then,  he  will  apply  the  principle 
on  which  I  have  so  much  insisted,  namely,  that 
of  selection;  on  this  he  will  depend  for  removing 
what  would  otherwise  be  painful  or  disgusting  in 
the  passion;  he  will  feel  that  there  is  no  necessity 
to  trick  out  or  elevate  nature;  and,  the  more 
industriously  he  applies  this  principle,  the  deeper 
will  be  his  faith  that  no  words  which  his  fancy 
or  imagination  can  suggest  will  bear  to  be  com- 
pared with  those  which  are  the  emanations  of 
reality  and  truth. 

But  it  may  be  said  by  those  who  do  not  object 
to  the  general  spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as 
it  is  impossible  for  the  poet  to  produce  upon  all 
occasions  language  as  exquisitely  fitted  for  the 
passion  as  that  which  the  real  passion  itself  sug- 

25 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

gests,  it  is  proper  that  he  should  consider  himself 
as  in  the  situation  of  a  translator,  who  deems 
himself  justified  when  he  substitutes  excellences 
of  another  kind  for  those  which  are  unattainable 
b3'  him;  and  endeavors  occasionally  to  surpass 
his  original,  in  order  to  make  some  amends  for 
the  general  inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that  he 
must  submit.  But  this  would  be  to  encourage 
idleness  and  unmanly  despair.  Further,  it  is  the 
language  of  men  who  speak  of  what  they  do  not 
understand;  who  talk  of  poetry  as  of  a  matter 
of  amusement  and  idle  pleasure;  who  will  con- 
verse with  us  as  gravely  about  a  taste  for  poetry, 
as  they  express  it,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  as  in- 
different as  a  taste  for  rope-dancing,  or  Fron- 
tignac,  or  Sherry.  Aristotle,  I  have  been  told, 
hath  said  that  poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of 
all  writing;  it  is  so:  its  object  is  truth,  not  in- 
dividual and  local,  but  general  and  operative; 
not  standing  upon  external  testimony,  but  car- 
ried alive  into  the  heart  by  passion;  truth  which 
is  its  own  testimony,  which  gives  strength  and 
divinity  to  the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and 
receives  them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is 
the  image  of  man  and  nature.  The  obstacles 
which  stand  in  the  way  of  the  fidelity  of  the 
biographer  and  historian,  and  of  their  consequent 
utility,  are  incalculably  greater  than  those  which 
are  to  be  encountered  by  the  poet  who  has  an 
adequate  notion  of  the  dignity  of  his  art.  The 
poet  writes  under  one  restriction  only,  namely, 
that  of  the  necessity  of  giving  immediate  pleasure 
to  a  human  being  possest  of  that  information 
which  may  be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a  lawyer, 
a  physician,  a  mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a  nat- 

26 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


ural  philosopher,  but  as  a  man.  Except  this  onQ 
restriction,  there  is  no  objoct  standing  between 
the  poet  and  the  image  of  things:  between  this 
and  the  biograjjhor  and  the  historian  there  are 
a  thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate 
pleasure  be  considered  as  a  degradation  of  the 
poet's  art.  It  is  far  otherwise.  It  is  an  acknow^l- 
edgment  of  the  beauty  of  the  universe,  an  ac- 
knowledgment the  more  sincere  because  it  is  not 
formal,  but  indirect;  it  is  a  task  light  and  easy 
to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in  the  spirit  of 
love:  further,  it  is  an  homage  paid  to  the  native 
and  naked  dignity  of  man,  to  the  grand  elemen- 
tary principle  of  pleasure,  by  which  he  knows, 
and  feels,  and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have  no 
oympathy  but  what  is  propagated  by  pleasure. 
I  would  not  be  misunderstood,  but  wherever  we 
sympathize  with  pain  it  will  be  found  that  the 
sjTnpathy  is  produced  and  carried  on  by  subtle 
combinations  with  pleasure.  We  have  no  knowl- 
edge, that  is,  no  general  princijiles  drawn  from 
the  contemplation  of  particular  facts,  but  what 
has  been  built  up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us 
by  pleasure  alone.  The  man  of  science,  the 
chemist,  and  mathematician,  whatever  difficulties 
and  disgusts  they  may  have  had  to  struggle  with, 
know  and  feel  this.  How-ever  painful  may  be 
the  objects  with  which  the  anatomist 's  knowledge 
is  connected,  he  feels  that  his  knowledge  is  pleas- 
ure; and  where  he  has  no  pleasure  he  has  no 
knowledge.  What  then  does  the  poet?  He  con- 
siders man  and  the  objects  that  surround  him  as 
acting  and  reacting  upon  each  other,  so  as  to 
produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and  pleas- 


27 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

ure;  he  considers  mau  in  his  own  nature  and  in 
his  ordinary  life  as  contemplating  this  with  a 
certain  quantity  of  immediate  knowledge,  with 
certain  convictions,  intuitions,  and  deductions, 
which  by  habit  become  of  the  nature  of  intui- 
tions; he  considers  him  as  looking  upon  this  com- 
plex scene  of  ideas  and  sensations,  and  finding 
everywhere  objects  that  immediately  excite  in 
him  sjTiipathies  which,  from  the  necessities  of 
his  nature,  are  accompanied  by  an  overbalance  of 
enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about 
with  them,  and  to  these  sj-mpathies  in  which, 
without  any  other  discipline  than  that  of  our 
daily  life,  we  are  fitted  to  take  delight,  the  poet 
principally  directs  his  attention.  He  considers 
man  and  nature  as  essentially  adapted  to  each 
other,  and  the  mind  of  man  as  naturally  the  mir- 
ror of  the  fairest  and  most  interesting  qualities  of 
nature.  And  thus  the  poet,  prompted  by  this 
feeling  of  pleasure  which  accompanies  him 
through  the  whole  course  of  his  studies,  converses 
with  general  nature  with  affections  akin  to  those 
which,  through  labor  and  length  of  time,  the  man 
of  science  has  raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing 
with  those  parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects 
of  his  studies.  The  knowledge  both  of  the  poet 
and  the  man  of  science  is  pleasure;  but  the 
knowledge  of  the  one  cleaves  to  us  as  a  necessary 
part  of  our  existence,  our  natural  and  unalienable 
inheritance;  the  other  is  a  personal  and  individ- 
ual acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by  no 
habitual  and  direct  sj-mpathy  connecting  us  with 
our  fellow  beings.  The  man  of  science  seeks 
truth  as  a  remote  and  unknown  benefactor;  he 

28 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


cherishes  and  loves  it  in  his  solitude;  the  poet, 
singing  a  song  in  which  all  human  beings  join 
with  him,  rejoices  in  the  presence  of  truth  as 
our  visible  friend  and  hourly  companion.  Poetry 
is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all  knowledge;  it 
is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is  in  the 
countenance  of  all  science.  Emphatically  may 
be  said  of  the  poet,  as  Shakespeare  hath  said  of 
man,  ''that  he  looks  before  and  after."  He  is 
the  rock  of  defense  of  human  nature,  an  upholder 
and  preserver,  carrying  everywhere  with  him 
relationship  and  love.  In  spite  of  difference  of 
soil  and  climate,  of  language  and  manners,  of 
laws  and  customs,  in  spite  of  things  silently  gone 
out  of  mind,  and  things  Wolently  destroyed,  the 
poet  binds  together  by  passion  and  knowledge 
the  vast  empire  of  human  society,  as  it  is  spread 
over  the  whole  earth  and  over  all  time.  The 
objects  of  the  poet's  thoughts  are  everywhere; 
tho  the  eyes  and  senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his 
favorite  guides,  yet  he  will  follow  wheresoever 
he  can  find  an  atmosphere  of  sensation  in  which 
to  move  his  wings.  Poetry  is  the  first  and  last 
of  all  knowledge — it  is  as  immortal  as  the  heart 
of  man. 

If  the  labors  of  men  of  science  should  ever 
create  any  material  revolution,  direct  or  in- 
dii'ect,  in  our  condition,  and  in  the  impressions 
which  we  habitually  receive,  the  poet  will  sleep 
then  no  more  than  at  present,  but  he  will  be 
ready  to  follow  the  steps  of  the  man  of  science, 
not  only  in  those  general  indirect  effects,  but  he 
will  be  at  his  side,  carrying  sensation  into  the 
midst  of  the  science  itself.  The  remotest  dis- 
coveries of  the  chemist,  the  botanist,  or  mineral- 


29 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

ogist  will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  poet's  art 
as  any  upon  "which  it  can  be  employed,  if  the  time 
should  ever  come  -when  these  things  shall  be 
familiar  to  us,  and  the  relations  under  which  they 
are  contemplated  by  the  followers  of  these  re- 
spective sciences  shall  be  manifestly  and  palpa- 
bly material  to  us  as  enjojdng  and  suffering  be- 
ings. If  the  time  should  ever  come  when  what 
is  now  called  science,  thus  familiarized  to  men, 
shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were,  a  form^  of 
flesh  and  blood,  the  poet  will  lend  his  di\dne  spirit 
to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will  welcome  the 
being  thus  produced  as  a  dear  and  genuine  in- 
mate of  the  household  of  man.  It  is  not,  then, 
to  be  supposed  that  any  one,  who  holds  that  sub- 
lime notion  of  poetry  which  I  have  attempted  to 
convey,  will  break  in  upon  the  sanctity  and  truth 
of  his  pictures  by  transitory  and  accidental  orna- 
ments, and  endeavor  to  excite  admiration  of  him- 
self by  arts,  the  necessity  of  which  must  mani- 
festly depend  upon  the  assumed  meanness  of  his 
subject. 


80 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

Born  in  1771,  died  in  1832;  educated  at  Edinburgh;  sheriff 
of  Selkirkshire  in  1799;  published  "The  Minetrelsy  of  the 
Scottish  Border"  in  180203;  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel" in  1805,  followed  by  "Marmion"  in  1808,  and  "The 
Lady  of  the  Lake"  in  1810;  his  first  novtl,  "Waverley," 
published  in  1814;  involved  to  the  extent  of  £120,000  in 
the  failure  of  his  publishers  in  1826;  with  additional  pri- 
vate debts  of  £30,000;  struggled  the  rest  of  his  life  under 
this  load  of  debt,  which  his  writings  finally  extinguished; 
made  a  baronet  in  1820;  lived  at  Abbotsford,  1812-1826. 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  THE  MASTER  OF 
RAVENSWOOD^ 

Hardly  had  Miss  Ashton  dropt  the  pen,  when 
the  door  of  the  apartment  flew  open,  and  the 
Master  of  Ravenswood,  entered  the  apartment. 

Lockhart  and  another  domestic,  who  had  in 
vain  attempted  to  oppose  his  passage  through  the 
gallery  or  antechamber,  were  seen  standing  on 
the  threshhold  transfist  with  surprize,  which  was 
instantly  communicated  to  the  whole  party  in 
the  stateroom.  That  of  Colonel  Douglas  Ashton 
was  mingled  with  resentment;  that  of  Bucklaw 
with  haughty  and  affected  indifference;  the  rest, 
even  Lady  Ashton  herself,  showed  signs  of  fear; 
and  Lucy  seemed  stiffened  to  stone  by  this  unex- 
pected apparition.     Apparition  it  might  well  be 

^Frorn  Chapter  XXXIII  of  "The  Bride  of  Lammermoor." 
31 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

termecl,  for  Ravenswood  had  more  the  appearance 
of  one  returned  from  the  dead  than  of  a  living 
visitor. 

He  planted  himself  full  in  the  middle  of  the 
apartment,  opposite  to  the  table  at  which  Lucy 
U'as  seated,  on  whom,  as  if  slie  had  been  alone  in 
the  chamber,  he  bent  his  ej'es  with  a  mingled  ex- 
pression of  deep  grief  and  deliberate  indignation. 
His  dark-colored  riding  cloak,  displaced  from  one 
shoulder,  hung  around  one  side  of  his  person  in 
the  ample  folds  of  the  Spanish  mantle.  The  rest 
of  his  rich  dress  was  travel-soiled,  and  deranged 
by  hard  riding.  He  had  a  sword  by  his  side,  and 
pistols  in  his  belt.  His  slouched  hat,  which  he  had 
not  yet  removed  at  entrance,  gave  an  additional 
gloom  to  his  dark  features,  which,  wasted  by  sor- 
row and  marked  by  the  ghastly  look  communi- 
cated by  long  illness,  added  to  a  countenance  nat- 
urally somewhat  stern  and  wild  a  fierce  and  even 
savage  expression.  The  matted  and  disheveled 
locks  of  hair  which  escaped  from  under  his  hat, 
together  with  his  fixt  and  unmoved  posture,  made 
his  head  more  resemble  that  of  a  marble  bust  than 
that  of  a  living  man.  He  said  not  a  single  word, 
and  there  was  a  deep  silence  in  the  company  for 
more  than  two  minutes. 

It  was  broken  by  Lady  Ashton,  who  in  that 
space  partly  recovered  her  natural  audacity.  She 
demanded  to  know  the  cause  of  his  unauthorized 
intrusion. 

''That  is  a  question,  madam,"  said  her  son, 
"which  I  have  the  best  right  to  ask;  and  I  must 
request  of  the  Master  of  Ravenswood  to  follow 
me  where  he  can  answer  it  at  leisure." 

Bueklaw  interposed,  saying,  *  *  No  man  on  earth 

32 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


should  usurp  his  previous  right  in  derrianding  an 
explanation  from  the  Master.  Craigengelt,"  ho 
added,  in  an  undertone,  "d — n  ye,  why  do  you 
stand  staring  as  if  you  saw  a  ghost  ?  fetch  me  my 
sword  from  the  gallery." 

"I  will  relinquish  to  none,"  said  Colonel  Ash- 
ton,  "my  right  of  calling  to  account  the  man  who 
has  offered  this  unparalleled  affront  to  my  fam- 
Dy." 

"Be  patient,  gentlemen,"  said  Ravenswood, 
turning  stenily  toward  them,  and  waving  his 
hand  as  if  to  impose  silence  on  their  altercation. 
"If  you  are  as  weary  of  your  lives  as  I  am,  I 
will  find  time  and  place  to  pledge  mine  against 
one  or  both ;  at  present,  I  have  no  leisure  for  the 
dispute  of  triflers." 

"Triflers!"  cried  Colonel  Ashton,  half  un- 
sheathing his  sword,  while  Bucklaw  laid  his  hand 
on  the  hilt  of  that  which  Craigengelt  had  just 
reached  him. 

Sir  William  Ashton,  alarmed  for  his  son's 
safety,  rushed  between  the  young  men  and 
Ravenswood,  exclaiming,  "My  son,  I  command 
you — Bucklaw,  I  entreat  you — keep  the  peace,  in 
the  name  of  the  Queen  and  of  the  law!" 

* '  In  the  name  of  the  law  of  God, ' '  said  Brid-the- 
Bent,  advancing  also  with  uplifted  hands  between 
Bucklaw,  the  Colonel,  and  the  object  of  their  re- 
sentment— "in  the  name  of  Him  who  brought 
peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  mankind,  I  im- 
plore— I  beseech — I  command  you  to  forbear 
violence  toward  each  other!  God  hateth  the 
bloodthirsty  man;  he  who  striketh  with  the  sword 
shall  perish  with  the  sword." 

"Do  you  take  me  for  a  dog,  sir,"  said  Colonel 

V-3  a3 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

Ashton,  turning  fiercely  upon  him,  "or  something 
more  brutally  stupid,  to  endure  this  insult  in  my 
father's  house?  Let  me  go,  Bueklaw!  He  shall 
account  to  me,  or,  by  Heavens  I  will  stab  him 
where  he  stands!" 

* '  You  shall  not  touch  him  here, ' '  said  Bueklaw ; 
"he  once  gave  me  my  life,  and  were  the  devil 
come  to  fly  away  with  the  whole  house  and  gen- 
eration, he  shall  have  nothing  but  fair  play." 

The  passions  of  the  two  young  men  thus  count- 
eracting each  other  gave  Ravenswood  leisure  to 
exclaim,  in  a  stern  and  steady  voice,  ' '  Silence  I — 
let  him  who  really  seeks  danger  take  the  fitting 
time  when  it  is  to  be  found ;  my  mission  here  will 
be  shortly  accomplished.  Is  that  your  handwri- 
ting, madam  ?  "  he  added  in  a  softer  tone,  extend- 
ing toward  Miss  Ashton  her  last  letter. 

A  faltering  "Yes,"  seemed  rather  to  escape 
from  her  lips  than  to  be  uttered  as  a  voluntary 
answer. 

"And  is  this  also  your  handwriting?"  extend- 
ing toward  her  the  mutual  engagement. 

Lucy  remained  silent.  Terror,  and  a  yet 
stronger  and  more  confused  feeling,  so  utterly 
disturbed  her  understanding  that  she  probably 
scarcely  comprehended  the  question  that  was  put 
to  her. 

"If  you  design,"  said  Sir  William  Ashton,  "to 
found  any  legal  claim  on  that  paper,  sir,  do  not 
expect  to  receive  any  answer  to  an  extrajudicial 
question. ' ' 

"Sir  William  Ashton,"  said  Ravenswood,  "I 
pray  you,  and  all  who  hear  me,  that  you  will  not 
mistake  my  purpose.  If  this  young  lady,  of  her 
own  free  will  desires  the  restoration  of  this  con- 

34 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


tract,  as  her  letter  would  seem  to  imply,  there  is 
not  a  withered  leaf  which  this  autumn  wind 
strews  on  the  heath  that  is  more  valueless  in  my 
eyes.  But  I  must  and  will  hear  the  truth  from 
her  own  mouth ;  without  this  satisfaction  I  will 
not  leave  this  spot.  Murder  me  by  numbers  you 
possibly  may;  but  I  am  an  armed  man — I  am  a 
desperate  man,  and  I  will  not  die  without  ample 
vengeance.  This  is  my  resolution,  take  it  as  you 
may.  I  will  hear  her  determination  from  her 
own  mouth;  from  her  own  mouth,  alone,  and  with- 
out witnesses,  will  I  hear  it.  Now,  choose,"  he 
said  drawing  his  sword  with  the  right  hand,  and, 
with  the  left,  by  the  same  motion  taking  a  pistol 
from  his  belt  and  cocking  it,  but  turning  the  point 
of  one  weapon  and  the  muzzle  of  the  other  to  the 
ground — "choose  if  you  will  have  this  hall 
flooded  with  blood,  or  if  j'ou  will  grant  mo  the 
decisive  interview  with  my  afRanced  bride  which 
the  laws  of  God  and  the  country  alike  entitle  me 
to  demand." 


n 

THE  DEATH  OF  MEG  MERRILES* 

The  surgeon  arrived  at  the  same  time,  and  was 
about  to  probe  the  wound;  but  Meg  resisted  the 
assistance  of  either.  "It's  no  what  man  can  do, 
that  will  heal  my  body,  or  save  my  spirit.  Let 
me  speak  what  I  have  to  say,  and  then  ye  may 
work   your  will,   I'se  be   nae   hinderance.     But 

•From   Chapter  LV  of  "Guy  Mannering." 

35 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

Where's  Henry  Bertram?"  The  assistants,  to 
whom  this  name  had  been  long  a  stranger,  gazed 
upon  each  other.  "Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  stronger 
and  harsher  tone,  "I  said  Henry  Bertram  of 
Ellangowan.  Stand  from  the  light  and  let  me 
see  him." 

All  eyes  were  turned  toward  Bertram,  who 
approached  the  wretched  couch.  The  wounded 
woman  took  hold  of  his  hand.  ''Look  at  him," 
she  said,  "all  that  ever  saw  his  father  or  his 
grandfather,  and  bear  witness  if  he  is  not  their 
li\ing  image?"  A  miu'mur  went  through  the 
crowd — the  resemblance  was  too  striking  to  be 
denied.  "And  now  hear  me — and  let  that  man," 
pointing  to  Hatteraick,  who  was  seated  with  his 
keepers  on  a  sea-chest  at  some  distance — "let 
hira  deny  what  I  say,  if  he  can.  That  is  Henry 
Bertram,  son  to  Godfrey  Bertram,  umquihile  of 
Ellangowan ;  that  young  man  is  the  very  lad- 
bairn  that  Dirk  Hatteraick  carried  off  from 
Warroch  wood  the  day  that  he  murdered  the 
gager.  I  was  there  like  a  wandering  spirit — for 
I  longed  to  see  that  wood  or  we  left  the  country. 
I  saved  the  bairn's  life,  and  sair,  sair  I  prigged 
and  prayed  they  would  leave  him  wi'  me — but 
they  bore  him  away,  and  he's  been  lang  ower 
the  sea,  and  now  he's  come  for  his  ain,  and  what 
should  withstand  him  ?  I  swore  to  keep  the  secret 
till  he  was  ane-an '-twenty — I  kenn'd  he  behoved 
to  dree  his  weird  till  that  day  cam — I  keepit 
that  oath  which  I  took  to  them — but  I  made  an- 
other vow  to  myself,  and  if  I  lived  to  see  the  day 
of  his  return,  I  would  set  him  in  his  father's 
seat,  if  every  step  was  on  a  dead  man.  I  have 
keepit  that  oath,  too ; — I  will  be  ae  step  mysell — 

3G 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


he"  (pointing  to  Ilatteraick),  "will  soon  be 
another,  and  there  will  me  ane  mair  yet." 

The  clergyman  now  interposing,  remarked  it 
•was  a  pity  this  deposition  was  not  regularly 
taken  and  written  down,  and  the  surgeon  urged 
the  necessity  of  examining  the  wound,  previously 
to  exhausting  her  by  questions.  When  she  saw 
them  removing  Ilatteraick,  in  order  to  clear  the 
room  and  leave  the  surgeon  to  his  operations, 
she  called  out  aloud,  raising  herself  at  the  same 
time  upon  the  couch,  "Dirk  Hatteraick,  you  and 
I  will  never  meet  again  until  we  are  before  the 
judgment  seat — will  you  own  to  what  I  have  said, 
or  will  you  dare  deny  it?"  lie  turned  his  hard- 
ened brow  upon  her,  with  a  look  of  dumb  and  in- 
flexible defiance.  "Dirk  Ilatteraick,  dare  ye  deny, 
•with  my  blood  upon  your  hands,  one  word  of  what 
my  dying  breath  is  uttering?"  He  looked  at 
her  with  the  same  expression  of  hardihood  and 
dogged  stubbornness,  and  moved  his  lips,  but 
uttered  no  sound.  "Then  fareweel!"  she  said, 
"and  God  forgive  you!  your  hand  has  sealed 
my  evidence.  When  I  was  in  life,  I  was  the 
mad  randy  gipsy,  that  had  been  scourged,  and 
banished,  and  branded — that  had  begged  from 
door  to  door,  and  been  hounded  like  a  stray  from 
parish  to  parish — wha  would  hae  minded  her 
tale?  But  now  I  am  a  dj-ing  woman,  and  my 
words  will  not  fall  to  the  ground,  any  more  than 
the  earth  will  cover  my  blood!" 

She  here  paused,  and  all  left  the  hut  except 
the  surgeon  and  two  or  three  women.  After  a 
short  examination,  he  shook  his  head,  and  re- 
signed his  post  by  the  dying  woman's  side  to  the 
clergyman. 

n 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

A  chaise  returning  empty  to  Kippletringan  had 
been  stopt  on  the  high-road  by  a  constable,  who 
foresaw  it  would  be  necessary  to  convey  Ilatter- 
aick  to  jail.  The  driver,  understanding  what  was 
going  on  at  Derneleugh,  left  his  hoi'ses  to  the 
care  of  the  blackguard  boy,  confiding,  it  is  to  be 
supposed,  rather  in  the  years  and  discretion  of 
the  cattle,  than  in  those  of  their  keeper,  and  set 
off  full  speed,  to  see,  as  he  exprest  himself, 
* '  whaten  a  sort  o '  fun  was  gaun  on. ' '  He  arrived 
just  as  the  group  of  tenants  and  peasants,  whose 
numbers  increased  every  moment,  satiated  with 
gazing  upon  the  rugged  features  of  Hatteraick, 
had  turned  their  attention  toward  Bertram. 
Almost  all  of  them,  especially  the  aged  men  who 
had  seen  Ellengowan  in  his  better  days,  felt  and 
acknowledged  the  justice  of  Meg  Merriles's  ap- 
peal. But  the  Scotch  arc  a  cautious  people;  they 
remembered  there  was  another  in  possession  of 
the  estate,  and  they  as  yet  only  exprest  their 
feelings  in  low  whispers  to  each  other.  Our 
friend,  Jock  Jabos,  the  postilion,  forced  his  way 
into  the  middle  of  the  circle;  but  no  sooner  cast 
his  eyes  upon  Bertram,  than  he  started  back  in 
amazement,  vnih  a  solemn  exclamation,  ''As  sure 
as  there's  breath  in  man,  it's  auld  Ellengowan." 

This  public  declaration  of  an  unprejudiced  wit- 
ness was  just  the  spark  wanted  to  give  fire  to  the 
popular  feeling,  which  burst  forth  in  three  dis- 
tinct shouts:  "Bertram  forever!"  ''Long  life 
to  the  heir  of  Ellaugowan!"  "God  send  him 
his  ain,  and  to  live  among  us  as  his  forebears  did 
of  yore ! ' ' 

"I  hae  been  seventy  years  on  the  land,"  said 
one  person. 

38 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


"I  and  mine  hae  been  seventy  and  seven  to 
that,"  said  another;  "I  have  a  right  to  ken  the 
glance  of  a  Bertram." 

"I  and  mine  hae  been  three  hundred  years 
here,"  said  another  old  man,  "and  I  shall  sell 
my  last  cow  but  I'll  see  the  young  laird  placed 
in  his  right." 

The  women,  ever  delighted  with  the  marvelous, 
and  not  less  so  when  a  handsome  young  man  is 
the  subject  of  the  tale,  added  their  shrill  accla- 
mations to  the  general  all-hail.  "Blessings  on 
him — he's  the  very  picture  o'  his  father!  The 
Bertrams  were  ay  the  wale  o'  the  countryside!" 

"Eh!  that  his  puir  mother,  that  died  of  grief 
and  in  doubt  about  him,  had  but  lived  to  see  this 
day!"  exclaimed  some  female  voices. 

"But  we'll  help  him  to  his  ain,  kimmers,"  cried 
others;  "and  before  Gossin  shall  keep  the  Place 
of  EUangowan,  we'll  howk  him  out  o't  wi'  our 
nails!" 

Others  crowded  around  Dinmont,  who  was  noth- 
ing loath  to  tell  what  he  knew  of  his  friend,  and 
to  boast  the  honor  which  he  had  in  contributing 
to  the  discovery.  As  he  was  known  to  several  of 
the  principal  farmers  present,  his  testimony 
afforded  an  additional  motive  to  the  general  en- 
thusiasm. In  short,  it  was  one  of  those  moments 
of  intense  feeling,  when  the  frost  of  the  Scottish 
people  melts  like  a  snow-wreath,  and  the  dissolv- 
ing torrent  carries  dam  and  dike  before  it. 

The  sudden  shouts  interrupted  the  devotions  of 
the  clerg>'man ;  and  Meg,  who  was  in  one  of  those 
dozing  fits  of  stupefaction  that  precede  the  close 
of  existence,  suddenly  started,  "Dinna  ye  hear? — 
dinna   ye   hear? — he's   owned! — he's   owned! — I 


39 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

lived  but  for  this.  I  am  a  sinful  woman;  but  if 
my  curse  brought  it  down,  my  blessing  has  taen 
it  off!  And  now  I  wad  hae  liked  to  hae  said 
mair.  But  it  can  not  be.  Stay" — she  continued, 
stretched  her  head  toward  the  gleam  of  light 
that  shot  through  the  narrow  slit  which  served 
for  a  window — "is  he  not  there? — stand  out  o' 
the  light,  and  let  me  look  upon  him  anee  mair. 
But  the  darkness  is  in  my  ain  een,"  she  said, 
sinking  back,  after  an  earnest  gaze  upon  vacuity 
— "it's  a'  ended  now. 

'Pass  breath, 
Come   death!" 

And,  sinking  back  upon  her  couch  of  straw,  she 
expired  without  a  gi'oan. 


m 

A  VISION  OF  ROB  ROY» 

When,  however,  I  recollected  the  circum- 
stances in  which  we  formerly  met,  I  could  not 
doubt  that  the  billet  was  most  probably  designed 
for  him.  He  had  made  a  marked  figure  among 
those  mysterious  personages  over  whom  Diana 
seemed  to  exercise  an  influence,  and  from  whom 
she  experi-enced  an  influence  in  her  turn.    It  was 

8  Prom  Chapter  XXIII  of  "Rob  Eoy."  Scott's  celebrated 
character  was  a  real  person,  his  name  being  Robert  Mac- 
Gregor,  or,  as  he  chose  to  call  himself,  Robert  Campbell. 
He  was  born  in  1671  and  died  in  1734,  and  was  a  son 
of  Donald  MacGregor,  a  lieutenant  in  the  army  of  James  II, 

40 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


painful  to  think  that  the  fate  of  a  being  so 
amiable  was  involved  in  that  of  desperadoes  of 
this  man's  description;  yet  it  seemed  impossible 
to  doubt  it.  Cf  what  use,  however,  could  this 
person  be  to  my  father's  affairs.  I  could  think 
only  of  one.  Rashleigh  Osbaldistone  had,  at  the 
instigation  of  Miss  Vernon,  certainly  found  means 
to  produce  Mr.  Campbell  when  his  presence  was 
necessary  to  exculpate  me  from  Morris's  accu- 
sation. Was  it  not  possible  that  her  influence,  in 
like  manner,  might  prevail  on  Campbell  to  pro- 
duce Rashleigh?  Speaking  on  this  supposition, 
I  requested  to  know  where  ray  dangerous  kinsman 
was,  and  when  Mr,  Campbell  had  seen  him.  The 
answer  was  indirect. 

"It's  a  kittle  cast  she  has  gien  me  to  play; 
but  yet  it's  fair  play,  and  I  winna  baulk  her. 
Mr.  Osbaldistone,  I  dwell  not  very  far  from 
hence  —  my  kinsman  can  show  j^ou  the  way. 
Leave  Mr.  Owen  to  do  the  best  he  can  in  Glas- 
gow— do  you  come  and  see  me  in  the  glens,  and 
it's  like  I  may  pleasure  you,  and  stead  your 
father  in  his  extremity.  I  am  but  a  poor  man; 
but  wit's  better  than  wealth — and,  cousin" 
(turning  from  me  to  address  Mr.  Jarvie),  **if  ye 
daur  venture  sae  muckle  as  to  eat  a  dish  of 
Scotch  coUops,  and  a  leg  o'  red-deer  venison  wi* 
me,  come  ye  wi'  this  Sassenach  gentleman  as  far 
as  Drymen  or  Bucklivie,  or  the  Clachan  of  Aber- 
foil,  will  be  bettor  than  ony  o'  them,  and  I'll  hae 

from  whom  after  tho  accession  of  William  of  Orange,  Robert 
obtained  a  commission.  Afterward  he  became  a  freebooter. 
He  was  included  in  the  Act  of  Attainder,  but  continued  to 
levy  blackmail  on  the  gentry  of  Scotland  while  In  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  protection  of  the  Duke  of  Argyle. 


41 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

somebody  waiting  to  weise  ye  to  the  gate  to  the 
place  where  I  may  be  for  the  time.  What  say 
ye,  man?  There's  my  thumb,  I'll  ne'er  beguile 
1  ee." 

"l^a,  na,  Robin,"  said  the  cautious  burgher, 
"I  seldom  like  to  leave  the  Gorbals,  I  have  nae 
freedom  to  gang  among  your  wild  hills,  Robin, 
and  your  kilted  red-shanks — ^it  disna  become  my 
place,  man." 

''The  devil  damn  your  place  and  you  baith!" 
reiterated  Campbell.  "The  only  drap  o'  gentle 
bluid  that's  in  your  body  was  our  great  grand- 
uncle  's  that  was  justified  at  Dumbarton,  and  you 
set  yourself  up  to  say  ye  wad  degrogate  frae 
your  place  to  visit  me!  Hark  thee,  man,  I  owe 
thee  a  day  in  harst — I'll  pay  up  your  thousan 
pund  Scots,  plack  and  bawbee,  gin  ye '11  be  an 
honest  fellow  for  anes,  and  just  daiker  up  the 
gate  wi*  this  Sassenach." 

**Hout  awa'  wi'  your  gentility,"  replied  the 
Bailie:  "carry  your  gentle  bluid  to  the  Cross, 
and  see  what  yell  buy  wi't.  But,  if  I  were  to 
come,  wad  ye  really  and  soothfastly  pay  me  the 
siller?" 

"I  swear  to  ye,"  said  the  Highlander,  "upon 
the  halidome  of  him  that  sleeps  beneath  the  gray 
stane  at  Inche-Cailleach. " 

"Say  nae  mair,  Robin — say  nae  mair.  We'll 
see  what  may  be  dune.  But  ye  maunna  expect 
me  to  gang  ower  the  Hieland  line — I'll  gae  be- 
yond the  line  at  no  rate.  Ye  maun  meet  me  about 
Bucklivie  or  the  Clachan  of  Aberfoil,  and  dinna 
forget  the  needful." 

"Nae  fear — nae  fear,"  said  Campbell;  "I'll 
be  as  true  as  the  steel  blade  that  never  failed 

42 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


its  master.  But  I  mnst  be  budjrfng,  cousin,  for 
the  air  o'  Glasgow  tolbooth  is  no  that  ower  salu- 
tary to  be  a  Highlander's  constitution." 

''Troth,"  replied  the  merchant,  "and  if  my 
duty  were  to  be  dune,  ye  couldna  change  your 
atmosphere,  as  the  minister  ca's  it,  this  ae  wee 
while.  Ochon,  that  I  ad  ever  be  concerned  in 
aiding  and  abetting  an  escape  frae  justice  I  il 
will  be  a  shame  and  disgrace  to  me  and  mine, 
and  my  father's  memory,  forever." 

"Hout  tout,  man!  let  that  flee  stick  in  the 
wa',"  answered  his  kinsman;  "when  the  dirt's 
dry  it  will  rub  out.  Your  father,  honest  man, 
could  look  over  a  friend's  fault  as  weel  as 
anither. " 

"Ye  may  be  right,  Robin,"  replied  the  Bailie, 
after  a  moment's  reflection;  "he  was  a  consid- 
erate man  the  deacon;  he  ken'd  we  had  a'  our 
frailties,  and  he  lo'ed  his  friends.  Ye '11  no  hae 
forgotten  him,  Robin?"  This  question  he  put 
in  a  softened  tone,  conveying  as  much  at  least 
of  the  ludicrous  as  the  pathetic. 

"Forgotten  him!"  replied  his  kinsman,  "what 
suld  ail  me  to  forget  him? — a  wapping  weaver  he 
was,  and  wrought  my  first  pair  o'  hose.  But 
come  awa,  kinsman, 

"Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  my  horses,  and  call  up  my  man; 
Come  open  your  gates,  and  let  me  gae  free, 
I  daurna  stay  langer  in  bonny  Dundee." 

"Whisht,  sir,"  said  the  magistrate,  in  an 
authoritative  tone — "lilting  and  singing  sae  near 
the  latter  end  o'  the  Sabbath!  This  house  may 
hear  ye  sing  anither  tune  yet.     Aweel,  we  hae 

43 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

a'  baekslidings  to  answer  for — Stanchells,  open 
the  door." 

The  jailer  obeyed,  and  we  all  sallied  forth. 
Stanchells  looked  with  some  surprize  at  the  two 
strangers,  wondering,  doubtless,  how  they  came 
into  these  premises  without  his  knowledge;  but 
Mr.  Jarvie's  "Friends  o'  mine,  Stanchells — 
friends  o'  mine,"  silenced  all  disposition  to  in- 
quiries. We  now  descended  into  the  lower  vesti- 
bule, and  hallooed  more  than  once  for  Dougal, 
to  which  summons  no  answer  was  returned ;  when 
Campbell  observed,  with  a  sardonic  smile,  "That 
if  Dougal  was  the  lad  he  kent  him,  he  would 
scarce  wait  to  get  thanks  for  his  ain  share  of  the 
night's  wark,  but  was  in  all  probability  on  the 
full  trot  to  the  pass  of  Ballmaha" — 

"And  left  us — and,  abune  a',  me  mysell,  locked 
up  in  the  tolbooth  a '  night ! ' '  exclaimed  the  Bailie, 
in  ire  and  perturbation.  "Ca'  for  fore-hammers, 
sledge-hammers,  pinches,  and  coulters;  send  for 
Deacon  Yettlin,  the  smith,  and  let  him  ken  that 
Bailie  Jarvie's  shut  up  in  the  tolbooth  by  a 
Hieland  blackguard,  whom  he'll  hang  up  as  high 
as  Haman" — 

"When  we  catch  him,"  said  Campbell  gravely; 
*'but  stay,  the  door  is  surely  not  locked." 

Indeed,  on  examination,  we  found  that  the  door 
was  not  only  left  open,  but  that  Dougal  in  his 
retreat  had,  by  carrying  off  the  keys  along  with 
him,  taken  care  that  no  one  should  exercise  Mb 
ofiBce  of  porter  in  a  hurry. 

"He  has  glimmerings  o'  common  sense  now, 
that  creature  Dougal,"  said  Campbell;  "he  ken'd 
an  open  door  might  hae  served  me  at  a  pinch." 

We  were  by  this  time  in  the  street. 

44 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


'*I  tell  you,  Robin,"  said  the  magistrate,  "in 
my  puir  mind,  ii  ye  live  the  life  ye  do,  ye  suld 
hae  ane  o'  your  gillies  doorkeeper  in  every  jail 
of  Scotland,  in  case  o'  the  warst. " 

"Ane  o'  my  kinsman  a  bailie  in  ilka  burgh  will 
just  do  as  weel,  Cousin  Nicol.  So,  gude-nicht 
or  gude-morning  to  ye;  and  forget  not  the  Clach- 
an  of  Aberfoil, " 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  sprang 
to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  was  lost  in 
darkness.  Immediately  on  his  disappearance,  we 
heard  him  give  a  low  whistle  of  peculiar  modu- 
lation, which  was  instantly  replied  to. 

"Hear  to  the  Hieland  deevils,"  said  Mr. 
Jarvie;  "they  think  themselves  on  the  skirts  of 
Benlomond  already,  where  they  may  gang  whew- 
ing,  whistling  about  without  minding  Sunday  or 
Saturday."  Here  he  was  interrupted  by  some 
thing  which  fell  with  a  heavy  clash  on  the  street 
before  us.  "Gude  guide  us!  what's  this  mair 
o't — Mattie,  baud  up  the  lantern — conscience! 
if  it  isna  the  keys!  Weel,  that's  just  as  well — 
they  cost  the  burgh  siller,  and  there  might  hae 
been  some  clavers  about  the  loss  o'  them — 0,  an 
Bailie  Grahame  were  to  get  word  o'  this  nicht's 
job,  it  wad  be  a  sair  hair  in  my  neck!" 

As  we  were  still  but  a  few  steps  from  the 
tolbooth  door,  we  carried  back  these  implements 
of  office,  and  consigned  them  to  the  head  jailer, 
who,  in  lieu  of  the  usual  mode  of  making  good 
his  post  by  turning  the  keys,  was  keeping  sentry 
in  the  vestibule  till  the  arrival  of  some  assistant 
whom  he  had  summoned  in  order  to  replace 
Celtic  fugitive  Dougal. 

Having  discharged  this  piece  of  duty  to  the 

45 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

burgh,  and  my  road  lying  the  same  way  with 
the  honest  magistrate's,  I  profited  by  the  light  of 
his  lantern,  and  he  by  my  arm,  to  find  our  way 
through  the  itreets,  which,  whatever  they  may 
now  titf,  w*r#  tb^n  d^rk,  uneven,  and  ill-paved. 
Age  is  easily  propitiated  by  attentions  from  the 
young.  The  Bailie  exprest  himself  interested  in 
me,  and  added,  "That  since  I  was  nana  o'  that 
play-acting  and  play-ganging  generation,  whom 
his  saul  hated,  he  wad  eat  a  reisted  haddock,  or 
a  fresh  herring,  at  breakfast  wi'  him  the  morn, 
and  meet  my  friend,  Mr.  Owen,  whom,  by  that 
time,  he  would  place  at  liberty." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  I,  when  I  had  accepted 
of  the  invitation  with  thanks,  "how  could  you 
possibly  connect  me  with  the  stage?" 

"I  watna,"  replied  Mr.  Jarvie;  "it  was  a 
bletheiin'  phrasin'  chield  they  ca'  Fairservice 
that  cam  at  e'en  to  get  an  order  to  send  the  crier 
through  the  toun  for  ye  at  skreigh  o'  day  the 
morn.  He  tell't  me  whae  ye  were,  and  how  ye 
were  sent  frae  your  father's  house  because  ye 
wadna  be  a  dealer,  and  that  ye  michtna  dis- 
grace your  family  wi'  ganging  on  the  stage. 
Ane  Hammorgaw,  our  precentor,  brought  him 
here,  and  said  he  was  an  auld  acquaintance;  but 
I  sent  them  baith  awa'  wi'  a  flae  in  their  lug 
for  bringing  me  sic  an  errand  on  sic  a  night. 
But  I  see  he's  a  fule-creature  a'  thegither  and 
clean  mista'en  about  ye.  I  like  ye,  man,"  he 
continued;  "I  like  a  lad  that  will  stand  by  his 
fi-iends  in  troubles — I  ay  did  it  mysell,  and  sae 
did  the  deacon  my  father,  rest  and  bless  him! 
But  he  suldna  keep  ower  muckle  company  wi* 
Hielandmen  and  thae  wild  cattle.     Can  a  man 

46 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


touch  pitch  and  no  be  defiled? — aye  mind  that. 
Nae  doubt,  the  best  and  wisest  may  err — once, 
twice,  and  thrice,  have  I  backslidden,  man,  and 
dune  inree  things  this  night — my  father  wadna 
hae  believed  his  een  if  he  could  hae  looked  up 
and  seen  me  do  them." 

He  was  by  this  time  arrived  at  the  door  of  his 
own  dwelling.  He  paused,  however,  on  the  thresh- 
old, and  went  on  in  a  solemn  tone  of  deep  con- 
trition, "Firstly,  I  hae  thought  my  ain  thought 
on  the  Sabbath.  Secondly,  I  hae  gien  security 
for  an  Englishman — and,  in  the  third  and  last 
place,  well  a-dayl  I  hae  let  an  ill-doer  escape 
from  the  place  of  imprisonment.  But  there's 
balm  in  Gilead,  Mr.  Osbaldistone — Mattie,  I  can 
let  mysell  in — see  Mr.  Osbaldistone  to  Luckie 
Flyter's,  at  the  comer  o'  the  wynd.  Mr.  Osbaldi- 
stone"— in  a  whisper — "ye '11  offer  nae  incinlity 
to  Mattie — she's  an  honest  man's  daughter,  and 
a  near  cousin  o'  the  Laird  o'  Limmerfield 's. " 


«t 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 


IV 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH  AND  AMY  ROBSART 
AT  KENILWORTH* 

It  chanced  upon  that  memorable  morning,  that 
one  of  the  earliest  of  the  huntress  train  who  ap- 
peared from  her  chamber  in  full  array  for  the 
chase  was  the  princess  for  whom  all  these  pleas- 
ures were  instituted,  England's  Maiden  Queen. 
I  know  not  if  it  were  by  chance,  or  out  of  the 
befitting  courtesy  due  to  a  mistress  by  whom  he 
was  so  much  honored,  that  she  had  scarcely  made 
one  step  beyond  the  threshold  of  her  chamber  ere 
Leicester  was  by  her  side;  and  proposed  to  her, 
until  the  preparations  for  the  chase  had  been 
completed,  to  view  the  pleasance,  and  the  gardens 
which  it  connected  with  the  castle-yard.    .    .    . 

Horses  in  the  meanwhile  neighed,  and  champed 
the  bits  with  impatience  in  the  base-court; 
hounds  yelled  in  their  couples,  and  yeomen, 
rangers,  and  prickers  lamented  the  exhaling  of 
the  dew,  which  would  prevent  the  scent  from 
lying.  But  Leicester  had  another  chase  in  view: 
or,  to  speak  more  justly  toward  him,  had  become 
engaged  in  it  without  premeditation,  as  the  high- 
ipirited  hunter  which  follows  the  cry  of  the 
hounds  that  hath  crost  his  path  by  accident.    The 

•From  "Kenilworth,"  which  In  general  is  founded  on 
actual  occurrences,  altho  there  are  many  incongruities  in 
the  story  as  to  time  and  circumstances.  Queen  Elizabeth'ii 
actual  visit  to  Kenilworth  took  place  in  1575.  Tho  castle 
is  now  one  of  the  most  picturesque  ruins  In  England.  It 
was   dismantled   under   Cromwell. 

iS 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


Queen — an  accomplished  and  handsome  woman, 
the  pride  of  England,  the  hope  of  Fiance  and 
Holland,  and  the  dread  of  Spain — had  probably 
listened  with  mure  than  usual  favor  to  that  mix- 
ture of  romantic  {rallantry  with  which  she  always 
loved  to  be  addrest,  and  the  earl  had,  in  vanity,  in 
ambition,  or  in  both,  thrown  in  more  and  more 
of  that  delicious  ingredient,  until  his  importunity 
became  the  language  of  love  itself. 

*'No,  Dudley,"  said  Elizabetii,  yet  it  was  with 
broken  accents, — "no,  I  must  be  the  mother  of 
my  people.  Other  ties,  that  make  the  lowly 
maiden  happy,  are  denied  to  her  sovereign — ■ 
No,  Leicester,  urge  it  no  more — Were  I  as 
others,  free  to  seek  my  own  happiness — then, 
indeed — but  it  can  not — can  not  be. — Delay  the 
chase — delay  it  for  half  an  hour — and  leave  me, 
my  lord." 

"How — leave  you,  madam!"  said  Leicester. 
"Has  my  madness  offended  you?" 

"No,  Leicester,  not  so!"  answered  the  Queen 
hastily;  "but  it  is  madness,  and  must  not  be 
repeated.  Go — but  go  not  far  from  hence;  and 
meantime  let  no  one  intrude  on  my  privacy." 

While  she  spoke  thus,  Dudley  bowed  deeply, 
and  retired  with  a  slow  and  melancholy  air.  The 
Queen  stood  gazing  after  him,  and  murmured  to 
herself,  "Were  it  possible — were  it  but  possible! 
— But  no — no — Elizabeth  must  be  the  wife  and 
mother  of  England  alone." 

As  she  spoke  thus,  and  in  order  to  avoid  some 
one  whose  step  she  heard  approaching,  th«  Queen 
turned  into  the  grotto  in  which  her  hapless  and 
yet  but  too  successful  rival  lay  concealed. 

The  mind  of  England 's  Elizabeth,  if  somewhat 

V— 4  49 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

shaken  bj'  the  agitating  interview  to  which  ehe 
had  ju«t  put  a  period,  was  ©f  tkat  firm  and  de- 
cided character  which  soon  reeovers  its  natural 
tone.  It  wa»  like  one  of  those  ancient  druidieal 
monuments  called  rocking-stones.  The  finger  of 
Cupid,  boy  ag  he  is  painted,  could  put  her  feel- 
ings in  motion;  but  the  power  of  Hercules  could 
not  have  destroyed  their  equilibrium.  As  she 
advanced  with  a  slow  pace  toward  the  inmost 
extremity  of  the  grotto,  her  countenance,  ere  she 
had  proceeded  half  the  length,  had  recovered  its 
dignity  of  look  and  her  mien  its  air  of  command. 
It  was  then  the  Queen  became  aware  that  a 
female  figure  was  placed  beside,  or  rather  partly 
behind,  an  alabaster  column,  at  the  foot  of  which 
arose  the  pellucid  fountain  which  occupied  the 
inmost  recess  of  the  tA\ilight  grotto.  The  classical 
mind  of  Elizabeth  suggested  the  story  of  Numa 
and  Egeria;  and  she  doubted  not  that  some 
Italian  sculptor  had  here  represented  the  Naiad 
whose  inspirations  gave  laws  to  Rome.  As  she 
advanced,  she  became  doubtful  whether  she  be- 
held a  statue  or  form  of  flesh  and  blood.  The 
unfortunate  Amy,  indeed,  remained  motionless 
betwixt  the  desire  which  she  had  to  make  her 
condition  known  to  one  of  her  own  sex,  and  her 
awe  for  the  stately  form  that  approached  her, — 
and  which,  tho  her  eyes  had  never  before  beheld, 
her  fears  instantly  suspected  to  be  the  personage 
she  really  was.  Amy  had  arisen  from  her  seat 
with  the  purpose  of  addressing  the  lady,  who 
entered  the  grotto  alone,  and  as  she  at  first 
thought,  so  opportunely.  But  when  she  recol- 
lected the  alarm  which  Leicester  had  exprest  at 
the  Queen's  knowing  aught  of  their  union,  and 

00 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


became  more  and  more  satisfied  that  the  person 
whom  she  now  beheld  was  Elizabeth  herself,  she 
stood  with  one  foot  advanced  and  one  withdrawn, 
her  arms,  head,  and  hands  perfectly  motionless, 
and  her  cheek  as  pallid  as  the  alabaster  pedestal 
against  which  she  leaned.  Her  dress  was  of  a 
pale  sea-green  silk,  little  distinguished  in  that 
imperfect  light,  and  somewhat  resembled  the 
drapery  of  a  Grecian  nymph, — such  an  antique 
disguise  having  been  thought  the  most  secure 
where  so  many  maskers  and  revelers  were  as- 
sembled ;  so  that  the  Queen 's  doubt  of  her  being 
a  liWng  form  was  justified  by  all  contingent  cir- 
cumstances, as  well  as  by  the  bloodless  cheek 
and  fixt  eye. 

From  her  dress,  and  the  casket  which  she  in- 
stinctively held  in  her  hand,  Elizabeth  naturally 
conjectured  that  the  beautiful,  but  mute  figure 
which  she  beheld  was  a  performer  in  one  of  the 
various  theatrical  pageants  which  had  been  placed 
in  different  situations  to  surprize  her  with  their 
homage ;  and  that  the  poor  player,  overcome  with 
awe  at  her  presence,  had  either  forgot  the  part 
assigned  her,  or  lacked  courage  to  go  through  it. 
It  was  natural  and  courteous  to  give  her  some 
encouragement;  and  Elizabeth  accordingly  said, 
in  a  tone  of  condescending  kindness:  "How 
now,  fair  nymph  of  this  lovely  grotto — art  thou 
spellbound  and  struck  with  dumbness  by  the 
wicked  enchanter  whom  men  term  Fear?  We 
are  his  sworn  enemy,  maiden,  and  can  reverse  his 
charm.    Speak,  we  command  thee." 

Instead  of  answering  her  by  speech,  the  un- 
fortunate countess  dropt  on  her  knee  before  the 
Queen,  let  her  casket  fall  from  her  hand,  and 


51 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

clasping  her  palms  together,  looked  up  in  the 
Queen's  face  with  such  a  mixt  agony  of  fear  and 
supplication,  that  Elizabeth  was  considerably 
affected. 

"What  may  this  mean?"  she  said:  "this  is  a 
stronger  passion  than  befits  the  occasion.  Stand 
up,  damsel:  what  wouldst  thou  have  with  us?" 

"Your  protection,  madam,"  faltered  forth  the 
unhappy  petitioner. 

"Each  daughter  of  England  has  it  while  she 
is  worthy  of  it,"  replied  the  Queen;  "but  your 
distress  seems  to  have  a  deeper  root  than  a  for- 
gotten task.  Why,  and  in  what,  do  you  crave  our 
protection?" 

Amy  hastily  endeavored  to  recall  what  she  were 
best  to  say,  which  might  secure  herself  from  the 
imminent  dangers  that  surrounded  her,  without 
endangering  her  husband;  and  plunging  from  one 
thought  to  another,  amidst  the  chaos  which  filled 
her  mind,  she  could  at  length,  in  answer  to  the 
Queen's  repeated  inquiries  in  what  she  sought 
protection,  only  falter  out,  "Alas!  I  know  not." 

"This  is  folly,  maiden,"  said  Elizabeth  im- 
patiently; for  there  was  something  in  the  extreme 
confusion  of  the  suppliant  which  irritated  her 
curiosity  as  well  as  interested  her  feelings.  "The 
sick  man  must  tell  his  malady  to  the  physician; 
nor  are  we  accustomed  to  ask  questions  so  oft, 
without  receiving  an  answer." 

"I  request — I  implore — "  stammered  forth  the 
unfortunate  countess — "I  beseech  your  gracious 
protection — against — against  one  Varne}'. "  She 
choked  well-nigh  as  she  uttered  the  fatal  word, 
which  was  instantly  caught  up  by  the  Queen. 

"What,    Varney — Sir    Richard    Varney — the 

52 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


servant  of  Lord  Leicester!  What,  damsel,  are 
you  to  him,  or  he  to  you?" 

"I — I — was  his  prisoner — and  he  practised  on 
my  life — and  I  broke  forth  to — to — " 

"To  throw  thyself  on  my  protection,  doubt- 
less," said  Elizabeth.  "Thou  shalt  have  it — 
that  is,  if  thou  art  worthy;  for  we  will  sift  this 
matter  to  the  uttermost. — Thou  art,"  she  said, 
bending  on  the  countess  an  eye  which  seemed  de- 
signed to  pierce  her  very  inmost  soul, — "thou 
art  Amy,  daughter  of  Sir  Hugh  Robsart  of  Lid- 
cote  Halir^ 

"Forgive  me — forgive  me — most  gi'acious 
princess  1 ' '  said  Amy,  dropping  once  more  on  her 
knee  from  which  she  had  arisen. 

"For  what  should  I  forgive  thee,  silly  wench?" 
said  Elizabeth:  "for  being  the  daughter  of  thine 
own  father?  Thou  art  brainsick,  surely.  Well, 
I  see  I  must  wring  the  story  from  thee  by  inches : 
Thou  didst  deceive  thine  old  and  honored  father, 
— thy  look  confesses  it;  cheated  Master  Tres- 
silian, — thy  blush  avouches  it;  and  married  this 
same  Varney. " 

Amy  sprung  on  her  feet,  and  interrupted  the 
Queen  eagerly  with — "No,  madam,  no:  as  there 
is  a  God  above  us,  I  am  not  the  sordid  wretch 
you  would  make  me!  I  am  not  the  wife  of  that 
contemptible  slave — of  that  most  deliberate 
villain  1  I  am  not  the  wife  of  Varney !  I  would 
rather  be  the  bride  of  J)estruction  1 " 

The  Queen,  overwhelmed  in  her  turn  hy  Amy's 
vehemence,  stood  silent  for  an  instant,  and  then 
replied,  "Why,  God  ha'  mercy,  woman!  I  see 
thou  canst  talk  fast  enough  when  the  theme  likes 
thee.    Nay;  tell  me,  woman,"  she  continued,  for 


53 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

to  the  impulse  of  curiosity  was  now  added  that 
of  an  undefined  jealousy  that  some  deception 
had  been  practised  on  her — "tell  me,  woman, — 
for  by  God's  day,  I  will  know, — whose  wife  or 
whose  paramour  art  thou?  Speak  out,  and  be 
speedy:  thou  wert  better  dally  with  a  lioness 
than  with  Elizabeth." 

Urged  to  this  extremity,  dragged  as  it  were  by 
irresistible  force  to  the  verge  of  a  precipice 
which  she  saw  but  could  not  avoid,  permitted  not 
a  moment 's  respite  by  the  eager  words  and  mena- 
cing gestures  of  the  offended  Queen, — ^Amy  at 
length  uttered  i  despair,  ' '  The  Earl  of  Leicester 
knows  it  all." 

''The  Earl  of  Leicester!"  said  Elizabeth  in 
utter  astonishment. — "The  Earl  of  Leicester!" 
she  repeated  with  kindling  anger. — "Woman, 
thou  art  set  on  to  this — thou  dost  belie  him — he 
takes  no  keep  of  such  things  as  thou  art.  Thou 
art  suborned  to  slander  the  noblest  lord,  and 
the  truest-hearted  gentleman,  in  England  1  But 
were  he  the  right  hand  of  our  trust,  or  something 
yet  dearer  to  us,  thou  shalt  have  thy  hearing, 
and  that  in  his  presence.  Come  with  me — come 
with  me  instantly  1" 

As  Amy  shrunk  back  with  terror,  which  the 
incensed  Queen  interpreted  as  that  of  conscious 
guilt,  Elizabeth  rapidly  advanced,  seized  on  her 
arm,  and  hastened  with  swift  and  long  steps  out 
of  the  gi'otto  and  along  the  principal  alley  of 
the  pleasance,  dragging  with  her  the  terrified 
countess,  whom  she  still  held  by  the  arm,  and 
with  utmost  exertion  could  but  just  keep  pace 
with  those  of  the  indignant  Queen. 

Leicester  was  at  this  moment  the  center  of  a 

54 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


splendid  group  of  lords  and  ladies  assembled  to- 
gether under  an  arcade,  or  portico,  which  closed 
the  alley.  The  company  had  drawn  together  in 
that  place,  to  attend  the  commands  of  her 
Majesty  when  the  hunting  party  should  go  for- 
ward: and  their  astonishment  may  be  imagined, 
when,  instead  of  seeing  Elizabeth  advance  toward 
them  with  her  usual  measured  dignity  of  motion, 
they  beheld  her  walking  so  rapidly  that  she  was 
in  the  midst  of  them  ere  they  were  aware;  and 
then  observed,  with  fear  and  surprize,  that  her 
features  were  flushed  betwixt  anger  and  agitation, 
that  her  hair  was  loosened  by  her  haste  of  mo- 
tion, and  that  her  eyes  sparkled  as  they  were 
wont  when  the  spirit  of  Henry  VIII.  mounted 
highest  in  his  daughter.  Nor  were  they  less 
astonished  at  the  appearance  of  the  pale,  attenu- 
ated, half  dead,  yet  still  lovely  female,  whom  the 
Queen  upheld  by  main  strength  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  waved  aside  the  ladies 
and  nobles  who  prest  toward  her  under  the  idea 
that  she  was  taken  suddenly  ill. — ''Where  is  my 
Lord  of  Leicester?"  she  said,  in  a  tone,  that 
thrilled  with  astonishment  all  the  courtiers  who 
stood  around. — "Stand  forth,  my  Lord  of 
Leicester ! ' ' 

If,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  serene  day  of  sum- 
mer, when  all  is  light  and  laughing  around,  a 
thunderbolt  were  to  fall  from  the  clear  blue  vault 
of  heaven  and  rend  the  earth  at  the  very  feet  of 
some  careless  traveler,  he  could  not  gaze  upon 
the  smoldering  chasm  which  so  unexpectedly 
yawned  before  him,  with  half  the  astonishment 
ni'd  fear  which  Leicester  felt  at  the  sight  that 
BO  suddenly  presented  itself.     He  had  that  in- 

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slant  been  receiving,  with  a  poKtieal  affectation 
of  disavowing  and  misunderstanding  their  mean- 
ing, the  half  uttered,  half  intimated  congratula- 
tions of  the  courtiers  upon  the  favor  of  the  Queen 
carried  apparently  to  its  highest  pitch  during 
the  interview  of  that  morning;  from  which  most 
of  them  seemed  to  augur  that  he  might  soon  arise 
from  their  equal  in  rank  to  become  their  master. 
And  now,  while  the  subdued  yet  proud  smile  with 
which  he  disclaimed  those  inferences  was  yet 
curling  his  cheek,  the  Queen  shot  into  the  circle^ 
her  passions  excited  to  the  uttermost;  and  suj>- 
TKJrting  with  one  hand,  and  apparently  without 
n  effort,  the  pale  and  sinking  form  of  his  almost 
xpiring  wife,  and  pointing  with  the  finger  of  the 
jther  to  her  half-dead  features,  demanded  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  to  the  ear  of  the  astounded 
salesman  like  the  last  dread  tnimpet-all  that  is 
to  summon  body  and  spirit  to  the  judgment-seat, 
"Knowest  thou  this  woman?" 

As,  at  the  blast  of  that  last  trumpet,  the  guilty 
shall  call  upon  the  mountains  to  cover  them,  Lei- 
cester's inward  thoughts  invoked  the  stately  arch 
which  he  had  built  in  his  pride,  to  burst  its 
strong  conjunction  and  overwhelm  them  in  its 
niins.  But  the  cemented  stones,  architrave  and 
battlement,  stood  fast;  and  it  was  the  proud 
master  himself,  who,  as  if  some  actual  pressure 
had  bent  him  to  the  earth,  kneeled  down  before 
Elizabeth,  and  prostrated  his  brow  to  the  marble 
flagstones  on  which  she  stood. 

"Leicester,"  said  Elizabeth,  in  a  voice  which 
trembled  with  passion,  **  could  I  think  thou  hast 
practised  on  me — on  me  thy  sovereign — on  me 
thy  confiding,  thy  too  partial  mistress,  the  base 

§9 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


and  ungrateful  deception  which  thy  present  con- 
fusion sunnises — by  all  that  is  holy,  false  lord, 
that  head  of  thine  were  in  as  great  peril  as  ever 
was  thy  father's!" 

Leicester  Lad  not  conscious  innocence,  but  he 
had  pride,  to  support  him.  He  raised  slowly  his 
brow  and  features,  which  were  black  and  swollen 
with  contending  emotions,  and  only  replied,  "My 
head  can  not  fall  but  by  the  sentence  of  my  peers; 
to  them  I  will  plead,  and  not  to  a  princess  who 
thus  requites  my  faithful  service." 

''What!  my  lords,"  said  Elizabeth,  looking 
around,  "we  are  defied,  I  thiuk — defied  in  the 
castle  wo  have  ourselves  bestowed  on  this  proud 
manf" — My  Lord  Shrewsbury,  you  are  marshal 
of  England:  attach  him  for  high  treason." 

"Whom  does  your  Grace  mean?"  said 
Shrewsbury,  much  surprized, — for  he  had  that 
instant  joined  the  astonished  circle. 

"WTiom  should  I  mean  but  that  traitor  Dudley, 
Earl  of  Leicester! — Cousin  of  Hunsdon,  order 
out  your  band  of  gentlemen  pensioners,  and  take 
him  into  custody. — I  say,  villain,  make  haste!" 

Hunsdon,  a  rough  old  noble,  who,  from  his 
relationship  to  the  Boleyns,  was  accustomed  to 
use  more  freedom  with  the  Queen  than  almost  any 
other  dared  to  do,  replied  bluntly,  "And  it  is 
like  your  Grace  might  order  me  to  the  Tower 
to-morrow  for  making  too  much  haste.  I  do 
beseech  you  to  be  patient." 

"Patient — God's  life!"  exclaimed  the  Queen, 

•  Kenilworth,  frhich  dates  from  1120,  -was  long  a  royal 
residence.  Here  in  1327  Edward  III  was  imprisoned.  Il 
was  afterward  granted  to  John  of  Gaunt,  "timo-honored 
L&QCAater,"  and  iu  1663  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester. 

57 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

"name  not  the  word  to  me:  thou  know'st  not  of 
what  he  is  guilty!" 

Amy,  who  had  by  this  time  in  some  degree 
recovered  herself,  and  who  saw  her  husband,  as 
she  conceived,  in  the  utmost  danger  from  the 
rage  of  an  offended  sovereign,  instantly  (and 
alas,  how  many  women  have  done  the  same!) 
forgot  her  own  wrongs  and  her  own  danger  in 
her  apprehensions  for  him;  and  throwing  herself 
before  the  Queen,  embraced  her  knees,  while  she 
exclaimed,  ''He  is  guiltless,  madam,  he  is  guilt- 
less— no  one  can  lay  aught  to  the  charge  of  the 
noble  Leicester." 

"Why,  minion,"  answered  the  Queen,  "didst 
not  thou  thyself  say  that  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
was  privy  to  thy  whole  history?" 

"Did  I  say  so?"  repeated  the  unhappy  Amy, 
laying  aside  every  consideration  of  consistency 
and  of  self-interest:  "oh,  if  I  did,  I  fouHy  belied 
him.  May  God  so  judge  me,  as  I  believt  he  was 
never  privy  to  a  thought  that  would  harm  me!" 

"Woman!"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  will  know  who 
has  moved  thee  to  this;  or  my  wrath — and  the 
wrath  of  kings  is  a  flaming  fire — shall  wither 
and  consume  thee  like  a  weed  in  the  furnace." 

As  the  Queen  uttered  this  threat,  Leicester's 
better  angel  called  his  pride  to  his  aid,  and  re- 
proached him  with  the  utter  extremity  of  mean- 
ness which  would  overwhelm  him  forever,  if  he 
stooped  to  take  shelter  under  the  generous  inter- 
position of  his  wife,  and  abandon  her,  in  return 
for  her  kindness,  to  the  resentment  of  the  Queen. 
He  had  already  raised  his  head,  with  the  dignity 
of  a  man  of  honoi-,  to  avow  his  marriage  and 
proclaim  himself  the  protector  of  his  countess, 

6S 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


when  Varney — born,  as  it  appeared,  to  be  his 
master's  evil  genius — rushed  into  the  presence, 
with  every  mark  of  disorder  on  his  face  and 
apparel. 

"What  means  this  sancy  intrusion?"  said 
Elizabeth. 

Varney,  with  the  air  of  a  man  overwhelmed 
with  grief  and  confusion,  prostrated  himself  be- 
fore her  feet,  exclaiming,  "Pardon,  my  Liege, 
pardon !  or  at  least  let  your  justice  avenge  itself 
on  me,  where  it  is  due;  but  spare  my  noble,  my 
generous,  my  innocent  patron  and  master!" 

Amy,  who  was  yet  kneeling,  started  up  as  she 
saw  the  man  whom  she  deemed  most  odious  place 
himself  so  near  her;  and  was  about  to  fly  toward 
Leicester,  when  checked  at  once  by  the  uncer- 
tainty and  even  timidity  which  his  looks  had 
reassumed  as  soon  as  the  appearance  of  his  con- 
fidant seemed  to  open  a  new  scene,  she  hung 
back,  and  uttering  a  faint  scream,  besought  of 
her  Majesty  to  cause  her  to  be  imprisoned  in 
the  lowest  dungeon  of  the  castle — to  deal  with 
her  as  the  worst  of  criminals — "But  spare,"  she 
exclaimed,  "my  sight  and  hearing  what  will  de- 
stroy the  little  judgment  I  have  left — the  sight 
of  that  unutterable  and  most  shameless  villain!" 

"And  why,  sweetheart?"  said  the  Queen, 
moved  by  a  new  impulse:  "what  hath  he,  this 
false  knight,  since  such  thou  accountest  him, 
done  to  thee?" 

"Oh,  worse  than  sorrow,  madam,  and  worse 
than  injury — he  has  sown  dissension  where  most 
there  should  be  peace.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  look 
longer  on  him." 

"Beshrew  me,  but  I  think  thou  are  distraught 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

already,"  answered  the  Queen.  "My  Lord  Huns- 
don,  look  to  this  poor  distrest  young  woman,  and 
let  her  be  safely  bestowed  and  in  honest  keeping, 
till  we  require  her  to  be  forthcoming." 

Two  or  three  of  the  ladies  in  attendance,  either 
moved  by  compassion  for  a  creature  so  inter-, 
esting,  or  by  some  other  motive,  offered  their 
service  to  look  after  her;  but  the  Queen  briefly 
answered,  "Ladies,  under  favor,  no.  You  have 
all  (give  God  thanks)  sharp  ears  and  nimble 
tongues:  our  kinsman  Hunsdon  has  ears  of  the 
dullest,  and  a  tongue  somewhat  rough,  but  yet 
of  the  slowest.  Hunsdon,  look  to  it  that  none 
have  speech  of  her." 

"By  our  Lady!"  said  Hunsdon,  taking  in  his 
strong  sinewy  arms  the  fading  and  almost  swoon- 
ing f onn  of  Amy,  ' '  she  is  a  lovely  child ;  and 
tho  a  rough  nurse,  your  Grace  hath  given  her 
a  kind  one.  She  is  safe  with  me  as  one  of  my 
own  lady-birds  of  daughters." 

So  saying,  he  carried  her  off,  unresistingly  and 
almost  unconsciously;  his  war-worn  locks  and 
long  gray  beard  mingling  with  her  light-brown 
tresses,  as  her  head  reclined  on  bis  strong  square 
shoulder.  The  Queen  followed  him  with  her  eye. 
She  had  already,  with  that  self-command  which 
forms  so  necessary  a  part  of  a  sovereign 's  accom- 
plishments, supprest  every  appearance  of  agita- 
tion, and  seemed  as  if  she  desired  to  banish  all 
traces  of  her  burst  of  passion  from  the  recollec- 
tion of  those  who  had  witnessed  it.  "My  Lord 
of  Hunsdon  says  well,"  she  observed:  "he  is 
indeed  but  a  rough  nurse  for  so  tender  a 
babe."    .    .    . 

Leicester  partly  started;  but  making  ft  strong 

60 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


effort,  he  subdued  his  emotion,  while  Elizabeth 
answered  sharply,  "You  are  something  too  hasty, 
Master  Varney:  we  will  have  first  a  report  of 
the  lady 's  health  and  state  of  mind  from  Masters, 
our  own  physician,  and  then  determine  what  shall 
be  thought  just.  You  shall  have  license,  however, 
to  see  her,  that  if  there  be  any  matrimonial  quar- 
rel betwixt  you — such  things  we  have  heard  do 
occur,  even  betwixt  a  loving  couple — you  may 
make  it  up,  without  further  scandal  to  our  court 
or  trouble  to  ourselves." 

Varney  bowed  low,  and  made  no  other  answer. 

Elizabeth  again  looked  toward  Leicester,  and 
said,  with  a  degree  of  condescension  which  could 
only  arise  out  of  the  most  heartfelt  interest, 
"Discord,  as  the  Italian  poet  says,  will  find  her 
way  into  peaceful  convents,  as  well  as  into  the 
privacy  of  families;  and  we  fear  our  own  guards 
and  ushers  will  hardly  exclude  her  from  courts. 
My  Lord  cf  Leicester,  you  are  offended  with  us, 
and  we  have  right  to  be  offended  with  you.  We 
will  take  the  lion's  part  upon  us,  and  be  the  first 
to  forgive." 

Leicester  smoothed  his  brow,  as  if  by  an  effort ; 
but  the  trouble  was  too  deep-seated  that  its 
placidity  should  at  once  return.  He  said,  how- 
ever, that  which  fitted  the  occasion,  that  "he 
could  not  have  the  happiness  of  forgiving,  be- 
cause she  who  commanded  him  to  do  so  could 
commit  no  injury  toward  him." 


«1 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 


THE  ILLNESS  AND  DEATH  OF  LADY 
SCOTT • 

(1826) 

Ahhotsfordy  April  16,  1826.  — I  am  now  far 
ahead  "with  Nap:  I  wrote  a  little  this  moming, 
but  this  forenoon  I  must  write  letters,  a  task 
iu  which  I  am  far  behind.  Lady  Scott  seems  to 
make  no  way,  yet  can  scarce  be  said  to  lose  any. 
She  suffers  much  occasionally,  especially  during 
the  night.  Sleeps  a  great  deal  when  at  ease; 
all  symptoms  announce  water  upon  the  chest. 
A  sad  prospect. 

April  19. — Two  melancholy  things.  Last  night 
I  left  my  pallet  in  our  family  apartment,  to  make 
way  for  a  female  attendant,  and  removed  to  a 
dressing^oom  adjoining,  when  to  return,  or 
whether  ever,  God  only  can  tell.  Also  my  servant 
cut  my  hair,  which  used  to  be  poor  Charlotte's 
personal  task.    I  hope  she  will  not  observe  it. 

April  21. — Had  the  grief  to  find  Lady  Scott 
had  insisted  on  coming  down-stairs  and  was  the 
worse  of  it.  Also  a  letter  from  Lockhart,  giving 
a  poor  account  of  the  infant.  God  help  us !  earth 
can  not. 

May  2. — I  wrote  and  read  for  three  hours,  and 
then  walked,  the  day  being  soft  and  delightful', 

9 Prom  "The  Journal."  Lady  Scott  died  in  the  midst  of 
Scott'g  financial  misfortuneB.  She  was  Charlotte  Mary  Car- 
penter,  daughter  of  a   French  refugee,  Jean  Charpentier. 

•  The  "Life  of  Napoleon." 

62 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


but  alas!  all  my  walks  are  lonely  from  the  ab- 
sence of  my  poor  companion.  Sbe  does  not  suffer, 
thank  God^  but  strength  must  fail  at  last.  Since 
Sunday  there  has  been  a  gradual  change — very 
gradual— but,  alas  I  to  the  worse.  My  hopes  are 
almost  gone.  But  I  am  determined  to  stand  this 
grief  as  I  have  done  others. 

May  4. — On  visiting  Lady  Scott's  sick-room 
this  morning,  I  found  her  suffering,  and  I  doubt 
if  she  knew  me.  Yet,  after  breakfast,  she  seemed 
serene  and  composed.  The  worst  is,  she  will  not 
speak  out  about  the  symptoms  under  which  she 
labors.  Sad,  sad  work;  I  am  under  the  most 
melancholy  apprehension,  for  what  constitution 
can  hold  out  under  these  continued  and  wasting 
attacks. 

May  6. — The  same  scene  of  hopeless  (almost) 
and  unavailing  anxiety.  Still  welcoming  me  with 
a  smile,  and  asserting  she  is  better.  1  fear  the 
disease  is  too  deeply  entwined  with  the  principles 
of  life.  Yet  the  increase  of  good  weather,  espe- 
cially if  it  would  turn  more  genial,  might,  I 
think,  aid  her  excellent  constitution.  Still  la- 
boring at  this  Review,  without  heart  or  spirits  to 
finish  it. 

May  10. — To-morrow  I  leave  my  home.  To 
what  scene  I  may  suddenly  be  recalled,  it  wrings 
my  heart  to  think. 

Edinhtirgh,  May  11. — Charlotte  was  unable  to 
take  leave  of  me,  being  in  a  sound  sleep,  after 
a  very  indifferent  night.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well. 
Emotion  might  have  hurt  her;  and  nothing  I 
could  have  exprest  would  have  been  worth  the 
risk.  I  have  foreseen,  for  two  years  and  more, 
that  this  menaced  event  could  not  be  far  distant. 

63 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

I  have  seen  plainly,  "within  the  last  two  months, 
that  recovery  was  hopeless.  And  yet  to  part 
with  the  companion  of  twenty-nine  years  when 
so  very  ill — that  I  did  not,  could  not  foresee.  It 
withers  my  heart  to  think  of  it,  and  to  recollect 
that  I  can  hardly  hope  again  to  seek  confidence 
and  counsel  from  that  ear  to  which  all  might  be 
safely  confided.  But  in  her  present  lethargic 
state,  what  would  my  attentions  have  availed? 
and  Anne  has  promised  close  and  constant  in- 
telligence. I  must  dine  with  James  Ballantyne 
to-day  en  famiUe.  I  can  not  help  it;  but  would 
rather  be  at  home  and  alone.  However,  I  can 
go  out  too.  I  will  not  yield  to  the  barren  sense 
of  hopelessness  which  struggles  to  inrade  me.  I 
past  a  pleasant  day  with  J.  B.,'  which  was  a 
great  relief  from  the  black  dog  which  would  have 
wonied  me  at  home.    We  were  quite  alone. 

May  15. — Received  the  melancholy  intelligence 
that  all  is  over  at  Abbotsford. 

Abbotsford,  May  16. — She  died  at  nine  in  the 
morning,  after  being  very  ill  for  two  days — easy 
at  last. 

I  ai-rived  here  late  last  night.  Anne  is  worn 
out,  and  has  had  hysterics,  which  returned  on 
my  arrival.  Her  broken  accents  were  like  those 
of  a  child,  the  language,  as  well  as  the  tones, 
broken,  but  in  the  most  gentle  voice  of  submis- 
sion, "Poor  mama — never  return  again — gone 
forev&r — a  better  place."    Then,  when  ahe  came 

8  James  Ballantyne  v/as  the  printer  of  Scott's  books  and 
his  partner  in  the  firm  of  James  Ballantyne  &  Co.,  which 
(ailed  in  1826,  in  consequence  of  being  involved  in  the  bank- 
ruptcy of  the  publishing  house  of  Constable  &  Co.,  with 
wWch  also  Scott  was  coanei^ed. 

64 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


to  herself,  she  spoke  with  eense,  freedom,  and 
strength  of  mind,  till  her  weakness  retomed- 
It  would  have  been  inexpressibly  moving  to  m« 
as  a  stranger — what  was  it  then  to  the  father 
and  the  husband?  For  myself,  I  scarce  know 
how  I  feel,  sometimes  as  firm  as  the  Bass  Rock, 
sometimes  as  weak  as  the  wave  that  breaks  on  it. 

I  am  as  alert  at  thinking  and  deciding  as  I 
ever  was  in  my  life.  Yet,  when  I  contrast  what 
this  place  now  ie,  with  what  it  has  been  not 
long  since,  I  think  my  heart  will  break.  Lonely, 
aged,  deprived  of  my  family — all  but  poor  Anne, 
an  impoverished  and  embarrassed  man,  I  am 
deprived  of  the  sharer  of  my  thoughts  and  coun- 
sels, who  could  always  talk  down  my  sense  of 
the  calamitous  apprehensions  which  break  the 
heart  that  must  bear  them  alone.  Even  her 
"oibles  were  of  service  to  me,  by  giving  me  things 
to  think  of  beyond  my  weary  self-reflections. 

I  have  seen  her.  The  figure  I  beheld  is,  and 
Is  not,  my  Charlotte  —  my  thirty  years'  com- 
panion. There  is  the  same  symmetry  of  form, 
tho  those  limbs  are  rigid  which  were  once  so 
gracefully  elastic — but  that  yellow  mask,  with 
pinched  features,  which  seem  to  mock  life  rather 
than  emulate  it,  can  it  be  the  face  that  was  once 
Bo  full  of  lively  expression  ?  I  will  not  look  on  it 
again.  Anne  thinks  her  little  changed,  because 
the  latest  idea  she  had  formed  of  her  mother  is 
as  she  appeared  under  circumstances  of  sickness 
and  pain.  Mine  go  back  to  a  period  of  com- 
parative health.  If  I  write  long  in  this  way, 
I  shall  write  down  my  resolution,  which  I  should 
rather  write  up,  if  I  could.  I  wonder  how  I 
shall  do  with  the  large  portion  of  thoughts  which 


v-»  es 


THE   BEST   OF   THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

were  hers  for  thirty  years.  I  suspect  they  will 
be  hers  yet  for  a  long  time  at  least.  But  I  will 
not  blaze  cambric  and  crape  in  the  public  eye 
like  a  disconsolate  widower,  that  most  affected 
of  all  characters. 

May  18. — Another  day,  and  a  bright  one  to 
the  external  world,  again  opens  on  us;  the  air 
is  soft,  and  the  flowers  smiling,  and  the  leaves 
glittering.  They  can  not  refresh  her  to  whom 
mild  weather  was  a  natural  enjoyment.  Cere- 
ments of  lead  and  of  wood  already  hold  her;  cold 
earth  must  have  her  soon.  But  it  is  not  my 
Charlotte,  it  is  not  the  bride  of  my  youth,  the 
mother  of  my  children,  that  will  be  laid  among 
the  ruins  of  Dryburgh,  which  we  have  so  often 
visited  in  gaiety  and  pastime.  No,  no.  She  is 
sentient  and  conscious  of  my  emotions  some- 
where- -somehow ;  where  we  can  not  tell;  how 
we  can  not  tell;  yet  would  I  not  at  this  moment 
renounce  the  mysterious  yet  certain  hope  that 
I  shall  see  her  in  a  better  world,  for  all  that  this 
world  can  give  me.  The  necessity  of  this  separa- 
tion— that  necessity  which  rendered  it  even  a 
relief — that  and  patience  must  be  my  comfort. 
I  do  not  experience  those  paroxysms  of  grief 
which  others  do  on  the  same  occasion.  I  can 
exert  myself  and  speak  even  cheerfully  with  the 
poor  girls.  But  alone,  or  if  anything  touches 
me — the  choking  sensation.  I  have  been  to  her 
room:  there  was  no  voice  in  it — no  stirring;  the 
pressure  of  the  eofifin  was  visible  on  the  bed,  but 
it  had  been  removed  elsewhere;  all  was  neat  as 
she  loved  it,  but  all  was  calm — calm  as  death. 
I  remembered  the  last  sight  of  her;  she  raised 
herself  in  bed,  and  tried  to  turn  her  ejes  after 

66 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


me,  and  said,  ■with  a  sort  of  smile,  "You  all  have 
Buch  melancholy  faces."  They  "K-ere  the  last 
words  I  ever  heard  her  utter,  and  I  hurried  away, 
for  she  did  not  seem  quite  conscious  of  what 
Bhe  said.  When  I  retiu'ned,  immediately  (before) 
departing,  she  was  in  a  deep  sleep.  It  is  deeper 
now.    This  was  but  seven  days  since. 

They  are  arranging  the  chamber  of  death ;  that 
which  was  long  the  apartment  of  connubial  hap>- 
piness,  and  of  whose  arrangements  (better  than 
in  richer  houses)  she  was  so  proud.  They  are 
treading  fast  and  thick.  For  weeks  you  could 
have  heard  a  foot-fall.    Oh,  my  God! 

May  21. — Our  sad  preparations  for  to-morrow 
continue.  A  letter  from  Lockhart ;  doubtful  if 
Sophia's  health  or  his  own  state  of  business  will 
let  him  be  here.  If  things  permit  he  comes  to- 
night. From  Charies  not  a  word;  but  I  think 
I  may  expect  him.  I  wish  to-morrow  were  over; 
not  that  I  fear  it,  for  my  nerves  are  pretty  good, 
but  it  will  be  a  day  of  many  recollections. 

May  22.  —  Charles  arrived  last  night,  much 
affected  of  course.  Anne  had  a  return  of  her 
fainting-fits  on  seeing  him,  and  again  upon  seeing 
Ml.  Ramsay,  the  gentleman  who  performs  the 
sei-vice.  I  heard  him  do  so  with  the  utmost 
propriety  for  my  late  friend.  Lady  Alvanley,  the 
arrangement  of  whose  funeral  devolved  upon  me. 
How  little  T  could  guess  when,  where,  and  with 
respect  to  whom  I  should  next  hear  those  solemn 
words.  Well,  I  am  not  apt  to  shrink  from  that 
which  is  my  duty,  merely  because  it  is  painful; 
but  I  wish  this  day  over.  A  kind  of  cloud  of 
stupidity  hangs  about  me,  as  if  all  were  unreal 
that  men  seem  to  be  doing  and  talking  abouto 


67 


THE   BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

May  23. — About  an  hour  before  the  mournful 
cei*emony  of  yesterday,  Walter  arrived,  having 
traveled  express  from  Ireland  on  receiving  the 
news.  He  was  much  affected,  poor  fellow,  and 
no  wonder.  Poor  Charlotte  nursed  him,  and  per- 
haps for  that  reason  she  was  ever  partial  to  him. 
The  whole  scene  floats  as  a  sort  of  dream  before 
me — the  beautiful  day,  the  gray  ruins  covered 
and  hidden  among  clouds  of  foliage  and  flourish, 
where  the  grave,  even  in  the  lap  of  beauty,  lay 
lurking  and  gaped  for  its  prey.  Then  the  grave 
looks,  the  hasty  important  bustle  of  men  with 
spades  and  mattocks — the  train  of  carriages — 
the  coffin  containing  the  creature  that  was  so 
long  the  dearest  on  earth  to  me,  and  whom  I  was 
to  consign  to  the  very  spot  which  in  pleasure- 
parties  we  so  frequently  visited.  It  seems  still 
as  if  this  could  not  be  really  so.  But  it  is  so — 
and  duty  to  God  and  to  my  children  must  teach 
me  patience. 

May  24. — Slept  wretchedly,  or  rather  waked 
wretchedly,  all  night,  and  was  very  sick  and 
bilious  in  consequence,  and  scarce  able  to  hold 
up  my  head  with  pain.  A  walk,  however,  with 
my  sons  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good;  indeed 
theiv  society  is  the  greatest  support  the  world 
can  afford  me.  Their  ideas  of  everj'thing  are 
so  just  and  honorable,  kind  toward  their  sisters, 
and  affectionate  to  me,  that  I  must  be  grateful 
to  God  for  sparing  them  to  me,  and  continue  to 
battle  with  the  world  for  their  sakes,  if  not  for 
my  own. 

May  26. — Were  an  enemy  coming  upon  my 
house,  would  I  not  do  my  best  to  fight,  altho 
opprest  in  spirits;  and  shall  a  similar  despond- 

68 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


ency  prevent  me  from  mental  exertion?    It  shall 
not,  by  Heaven ! 

May  30. — This  has  been  a  melancholy  day — 
most  melancholy.  I  am  afraid  poor  Charles 
found  me  weeping.  I  do  not  know  what  other 
folks  feel,  but  with  me  the  hysterical  passion 
that  impels  tears  is  a  terrible  Wolence — a  sort 
of  throttling  sensation  —  then  succeeded  by  a 
state  of  dreaming  stupidity,  in  which  I  ask  if 
my  poor  Charlotte  can  actually  be  dead. 


69 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR 
COLERIDGE 

Born  in  1772,  died  in  1834;  educated  at  Cambridge,  but 
was  not  graduated;  formed  an  unsuccessful  sclieme  for  a 
communistic  settlement  on  the  Susquehanna  River,  in  Penn- 
sylvania; married  a  sister  of  Southey's  wife  in  1795;  pub- 
lished at  Bristol  a  volume  of  poems  in  1796;  "The  Ancient 
Mariner"  in  1798;  settled  at  Keswick  with  Southey  and 
Wordsworth  in  1800 ;  lectured  in  London  to  fashionable 
audiences,  becoming  in  1816  the  guest  of  Mr.  Gillman,  a 
London  physician,  at  Highgate,  where  he  spent  the  remainder 
of  his  life;  published  "Christabel"  in  1816,  "Aids  to  Reflec- 
tion" in  1825,  his  "Literary  Remains"  appearing  In  1836-39. 


DOES  FORTUNE  FAVOR  FOOLS?* 

"Does  Fortune  favor  fools?  Or  how  do  you 
explain  the  origin  of  the  proverb,  which,  differ- 
ently worded,  is  to  be  found  in  all  the  languages 
of  Europe?" 

This  proverb  admits  of  various  explanations, 
according  to  the  moods  of  mind  in  which  it  is 
used.  It  may  arise  from  pity,  and  the  soothing 
persuasion  that  Providence  is  eminently  watchful 
over  the  helpless,  and  extends  an  especial  care 
to  those  who  are  not  capable  of  caring  for  them- 
selves. So  used,  it  breathes  the  same  feeling 
as  "God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb" — 
or   the  more  sportive  adage,   that  "the  fairies 

iFrom  "A  Sailor's  Fortune." 

fi 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

i*  ^"^^"^ 

take  eare  of  children  and  tipsy  folk. ' '  The  per- 
suasion itself,  in  addition  to  the  general  religious 
feeling  of  mankind,  and  the  scarcely  less  general 
love  of  the  marvelous,  may  be  accounted  for  from 
our  tendency  to  exaggerate  all  effects  that  seem 
disproportionate  to  their  visible  cause,  and  all 
circumstances  that  are  in  any  way  strongly  con- 
trasted with  our  notions  of  the  persons  under 
them.  Secondly,  it  arises  from  the  safety  and 
success  which  an  ignorance  of  danger  and  dif- 
ficulty sometimes  actually  assists  in  procuring; 
inasmuch  as  it  precludes  the  despondence  which 
might  have  kept  the  more  foresighted  from  un- 
dertaking the  enterprise,  the  depression  which 
would  retard  its  progress,  and  those  overwhelm- 
ing influences  of  terror  in  eases  where  the  vivid 
perception  of  the  danger  constitutes  the  greater 
part  of  the  danger  itself.  Thus  men  are  said  to 
have  swooned  and  even  died  at  the  sight  of  a 
narrow  bridge,  over  which  they  had  ridden  the 
night  before  in  perfect  safety,  or  at  tracing  the 
footmarks  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice  which 
the  darkness  had  concealed  from  them.  A  more 
obscure  cause,  yet  not  wholly  to  be  omitted,  is 
afforded  by  the  undoubted  fact  that  the  exertion 
of  the  reasoning  faculties  tends  to  extinguish 
or  bedim  those  mysterious  instincts  of  skill, 
which,  tho  for  the  most  part  latent,  we  never- 
theless possess  in  common  with  other  animals. 

Or  the  proverb  may  be  used  inridiously ;  and 
folly  in  the  vocabulary  of  en\'j'  or  baseness  may 
signify  courage  and  magnanimity.  Hardihood 
and  foolhardiness  are  indeed  as  different  as  green 
and  yellow,  yet  will  appear  the  same  to  the  jaun- 
diced  eye.     Courage  multiplies   the   chances   of 

71 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

success  by  sometimes  making  opportunities,  and 
always  availing  itself  of  them:  and  in  this  sense 
Fortune  may  be  said  to  favor  fools  by  those  who, 
however  prudent  in  their  own  opinion,  are  defi- 
cient in  valor  and  enterprise.  Again,  an  emi- 
nently good  and  wise  man,  for  whom  the  praises 
of  the  judicious  have  procured  a  high  reputation 
even  with  the  world  at  large,  proposes  to  himself 
certain  objects,  and  adapting  the  right  means  to 
the  right  end  attains  them;  but  his  objects  not 
being  what  the  world  calls  Fortune,  neither 
money  nor  artificial  rank,  his  admitted  inferiors 
in  moral  and  intellectual  worth,  but  more  pros- 
perous in  their  worldly  concerns,  are  said  to 
have  been  favored  by  Fortune  and  be  slighted; 
altho  the  fools  did  the  same  in  their  line  as  the 
wise  man  in  his;  they  adapted  the  appropriate 
means  to  the  desired  end,  and  so  succeeded.  In 
this  sense  the  proverb  is  current  by  a  misuse,  or 
a  catachresis  at  least  of  both  the  words,  Fortune 
and  Fools. 

How  seldom,  friend,  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth  with  all  his  worth  and  pains ! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits, 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he  merits, 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains. 

REPLY 

For  shame!  dear  friend,  renounce  this  canting 

strain ! 
What  would 'st  thou  hav«  a  good  great  man 

obtain? 
Place?  titles?  salary?  a  gilded  chain? 
Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? 

73 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

Greatness   and   goodness   are   not   means,  but 

ends! 
Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 
The  good  great  man?     Three  treasures,  love, 

and  light, 
And  calm  thoughts  regular  as  infants'  breath: 
And   three   firm  friends,  more  sure  than  day 

and  night, 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death? 

But,  lastly,  there  is,  doubtless,  a  true  meaning 
attached  to  Fortune,  distinct  both  from  prudence 
and  from  courage;  and  distinct  too  from  that 
absence  of  depressing  or  bewildering  passions, 
which  (according  to  my  favorite  proverb,  ** ex- 
tremes meet")  the  fool  not  seldom  obtains  in 
as  great  perfection  by  his  ignorance  as  the  wise 
man  by  the  highest  energies  of  thought  and  self- 
discipline.  Luck  has  a  real  existence  in  human 
affairs,  from  the  infinite  number  of  powers  that 
are  in  action  at  the  same  time,  and  from  the 
coexistence  of  things  contingent  and  accidental 
(such  as  to  us  at  least  are  accidental)  with  the 
regular  appearances  and  general  laws  of  nature. 
A  familiar  instance  will  make  these  words  in- 
telligible. The  moon  waxes  and  wanes  according 
to  a  necessary  law.  The  clouds  likewise,  and  all 
the  manifold  appearances  connected  with  them, 
are  governed  by  certain  laws  no  less  than  the 
phases  of  the  moon.  But  the  laws  which  deter- 
mine the  latter  are  known  and  calculable,  whil« 
those  of  the  former  are  hidden  from  us. 

At  all  events,  the  number  and  variety  of  their 
effects  bafl3e  our  powers  of  calculation;  and  tkat 
the  sky  is  clear  or  obscured  at  any  particular 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

time,  we  speak  of,  in  common  language,  as  a 
matter  of  accident.  Wei!!  at  the  time  of  the 
full  moon,  but  when  the  sky  is  completely  cov- 
ered with  black  clouds,  I  am  walking  on  in  the 
dark,  aware  of  no  particular  danger;  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind  rends  the  clouds  for  a  moment,  and 
the  moon  emerging  discloses  to  me  a  chasm  or 
precipice,  to  the  very  brink  of  which  I  had  ad- 
vanced my  foot.  This  is  what  is  meant  by  luck, 
and  according  to  the  more  or  less  serious  mood 
or  habit  of  our  mind,  we  exclaim,  how  lucky,  or 
how  providential !  The  copresence  of  numberless 
phenomena,  which  from  the  complexity  or  sub- 
tlety of  their  determining  causes  are  called  con- 
tingencies, and  the  coexistence  of  these  with  any 
regular  or  necessarj'  phenomenon  (as  the  clouds 
with  the  moon,  for  instance)  occasion  coinci- 
dences, which,  when  they  are  attended  by  any 
advantage  or  injury,  and  are  at  the  same  time 
incapable  of  being  calculated  or  foreseen  by  hu- 
man prudence,  form  good  or  ill  luck.  On  a  hot 
sunshiny  afternoon  came  on  a  sudden  storm  and 
spoiled  the  farmer's  hay;  and  this  is  called  ill 
luck.  We  will  suppose  the  same  event  to  take 
place  when  meteorology  shall  have  been  perfected 
into  a  science,  provided  with  unerring  instru- 
ments; but  which  the  farmer  had  neglected  to 
examine.  This  is  no  longer  ill  luck,  but  im- 
prudence. 

Now  apply  this  to  our  proverb.  Unforeseen 
coincidences  may  have  greatly  helped  a  man,  yet 
if  they  have  done  for  him  only  what  possibly 
from  his  own  abilities  he  might  have  effected  for 
himself,  his  good  luck  will  excite  less  attention 
and   the  instances   be   less   remembered.     That 

74 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

clever  men  should  attain  their  objects  seems  nat- 
ural, and  we  neglect  the  circumstances  that  per- 
haps produced  that  success  of  themselves  without 
the  intervention  of  skill  or  foresight;  but  we 
dwell  on  the  fact  and  remember  it,  as  something 
strange,  when  the  same  happens  to  a  weak  or 
ignorant  man.  So,  too,  tho  the  latter  o.')oul<i  fail 
in  his  undertakings  from  concurrences  that  might 
have  happened  to  the  wisest  man,  yet  his  failure 
being  no  more  than  might  have  been  expected 
and  accounted  for  from  his  folly,  it  la5's  no  hold 
on  our  attention,  but  fleets  away  among  the  other 
undistinguished  waves,  in  which  the  stream  of 
ordinary  life  murmurs  by  us  and  is  forgotten. 
Had  it  been  as  true  as  it  was  notoriously  false, 
that  those  all-embracing  discoveries,  which  have 
shed  a  dawn  of  science  on  the  art  of  chemistry, 
and  give  no  obscure  promise  of  some  one  great 
constitutive  law,  in  the  light  of  which  dwell 
dominion  and  the  power  of  prophecy;  if  these 
discoveries,  instead  of  having  been,  as  they  really 
were,  preconcerted  by  meditation,  and  evolved 
out  of  his  own  intellect,  had  occurred  by  a  set  of 
lucky  accidents  to  the  illustrious  father  and 
founder  of  philosophic  alchemy;  if  they  presented 
themselves  to  Sir  Humphry  Davy  exclusively  in 
consequence  of  his  luck  in  possessing  a  particular 
galvanic  battery;  if  this  battery,  as  far  as  Davy 
was  concerned,  had  itself  been  an  accident,  and 
not  (as  in  point  of  fact  it  was)  desired  and  ob- 
tained by  him  for  the  puiiiose  of  insuring  the 
testimony  of  experience  to  his  principles,  and  in 
order  to  bind  down  material  nature  under  the 
inquisition  of  reason,  and  forced  from  her  as  by 
torture,   unequivocal    answers    to   prepared   and 

76 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

preconceived  questions — yet  still  they  would  not 
have  been  talked  of  or  descnbed  as  instances  of 
luck,  but  as  the  natural  results  of  his  admitted 
genius  and  known  skill.  But  should  an  accident 
have  disclosed  similar  discoveries  to  a  mechanic 
at  Birmingham  or  Sheffield,  and  if  the  man  should 
grov,  riel  in  consequence,  and  partly  by  the  envy 
of  his  neighbors,  and  partly  with  good  reason,  be 
considered  by  them  as  a  man  below  par  in  the 
general  powers  of  his  understanding;  then,  "Oh 
what  a  lucky  fellow!  Well,  Fortune  does  favor 
fools — that's  certain!  It  is  always  sol" — and 
forthwith  the  exclaimer  relates  half  a  dozen  sim- 
ilar instances.  Thus  accumulating  the  one  sort 
of  facts  and  never  collecting  the  other,  we  do, 
a?  poets  in  their  diction  and  quacks  of  all  denom- 
inations do  in  their  reasoning,  put  a  part  for 
the  whole,  and  at  once  soothe  our  envy  and 
gratify  our  love  of  the  marvelous,  by  the  sweep- 
ing proverb,  ** Fortune  favors  fools." 


n 

THE  DESTINY  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES* 

The  possible  destiny  of  the  United  States  of 
America — as  a  nation  of  a  hundred  millions  of 
freemen  —  stretching  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific,  living  under  the  laws  of  Alfred,  and 
speaking  the  language  of  Shakespeare  and  Mil- 
ton, is  an   august   conception.     Why  should  we 

•  From  the  "Table  Talk." 

76 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

not  wish  to  see  it  realized?  America  would  then 
be  England  viewed  through  a  sular  microscope; 
Great  Britain  in  a  state  of  glorious  magniUcationl 
How  deeply  to  be  lamented  is  the  spirit  of  hos- 
tility and  sneering  which  some  of  the  popular 
books  of  travels  have  shown  in  treating  of  the 
Americans!  They  hate  us,  no  doubt,  just  as 
brothers  hate;  but  they  respect  the  opinion  of 
an  Englishman  concerning  themselves  ten  times 
as  much  as  that  of  a  native  of  any  other  country 
on  earth.  A  very  little  humoring  of  their  prej- 
udices, and  some  courtesy  of  language  and  de- 
meanor on  the  part  of  Englishmen,  would  work 
Avonders,  even  as  it  is,  with  the  public  mind  of 
the  Americans. 

Capt.  Basil  Hall's*  book  is  certainly  very  en- 
tertaining and  instructive;  but,  in  my  judgment, 
his  sentiments  upon  many  points,  and  more  espe- 
cially his  mode  of  expression,  are  unwise  and 
uncharitable.  After  all,  are  not  most  of  the 
things  shown  up  with  so  much  bitterness  by  him 
mere  national  foibles,  parallels  to  which  every 
people  has  and  must  of  necessity  have? 

What  you  say  about  the  quarrel  in  the  United 
States  is  sophistical.  No  doubt,  taxation  may, 
and  perhaps  in  some  cases  must,  press  unequally, 
or  apparently  so,  on  different  classes  of  people 
in  a  state.  In  such  eases  there  is  a  hardship; 
but  in  the  long  run,  the  matter  is  fully  com- 
pensated to  the  overtaxed  class.  For  example, 
take  the  householders  in  London  who  complain 
so  bitterly  of  the  house  and  window  taxes.     Is 

•Hall  was  a  British  naval  officer,  who  visited  the  United 
Stntcs  in  1827-28,  and  in  1829  published  the  book  Cole- 
ridge refers  to.   "Travels  in  North  America." 

T7 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

it  not  pretty  clear  that,  whether  such  householder 
be  a  tradesman  who  indemnifies  himself  in  the 
price  of  his  goods;  or  a  letter  of  lodgings  who 
does  so  in  his  rent;  or  a  stockholder  who  receives 
it  back  again  in  his  dividends ;  or  a  country 
gentleman  who  has  saved  so  much  fresh  levy  on 
his  land  or  his  other  pi-operty;  one  way  or  other, 
it  comes  at  last  pretty  nearly  to  the  same  thing, 
tho  the  pressure  for  the  time  may  be  unjust  and 
vexatious,  and  fit  to  be  removed  ?  But  when  New 
England,  which  may  be  considered  a  state  in 
itself,  taxes  the  admission  of  foreign  manufac- 
tures in  order  to  cherish  manufactures  of  its 
own,  and  thereby  forces  the  Caroliuas,  another 
state  of  itself,  with  which  there  is  little  inter- 
communion, which  has  no  such  desire  or  interest 
to  serve,  to  buy  worse  articles  at  a  higher  price, 
it  is  altogether  a  different  question,  and  is,  in 
fact,  downright  tyranny  of  the  worst,  becaiise 
of  the  most  sordid,  kind.  What  would  you  think 
of  a  law  which  should  tax  every  person  in  Devon- 
shire for  the  pecuniary  benefit  of  every  person 
in  Yorkshire?  And  yet  that  is  a  feeble  image 
of  the  actual  usurpation  of  the  New  England 
deputies  over  the  property  of  the  Southern 
States. 

There  are  two  possible  modes  of  unity  in  a 
state;  one  by  absolute  coordination  of  each  to 
all,  and  of  all  to  each;  the  other  by  subordination 
of  classes  and  offices.  Now,  I  maintain  that  there 
never  was  an  instance  of  the  first,  nor  can  there 
be,  without  slavery  as  its  condition  and  accom- 
paniment, as  in  Athens.  The  poor  Swiss  cantons 
are  no  exception. 

The  mistake  lies  in  confounding  a  state  which 

78 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

must  be  based  on  classes  and  interests  and  un- 
equal property,  with  a  church,  which  is  founded 
on  the  person,  and  has  no  qualification  but  per- 
sonal merit.  Such  a  community  may  exist,  as 
in  the  ease  of  the  Quakers;  but  in  order  to  exist, 
it  must  be  comprest  and  hedged  in  by  another 
society — mundtis  mundulus  in  viundo  immundo. 

The  free  class  in  a  slave  state  is  always,  in 
one  sense,  the  most  patriotic  class  of  people  in 
an  empire;  for  their  patriotism  is  not  simply 
the  patriotism  of  other  people,  but  an  aggregate 
of  lust  of  power  and  distinction  and  supremacy. 


7Q 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

Born  in  1774,  died  in  1843;  educated  at  Oxfoid;  traveled 
in  Spain  and  Portugal  in  1795-96;  settled  near  Keswick 
In  tlie  lalce  region  in  1804;  became  poet  laureate  in  1818, 
his  "Life  of  Nelson"  published  in  1813,  a  small  book,  but 
to-daj'   the   best    kncvrn   of   all   his   many   writings. 


NELSON'S  DEATH  AT  TRAFALGAR* 

(1805) 

It  had  been  part  of  Nelson's  prayer,  that  the 
British  fleet  might  be  distinguished  by  humanity 
in  the  victory  which  he  expected.  Setting  an 
example  himself,  he  twice  gave  orders  to  cease 
firing  on  the  Redoubtable,  supposing  that  she  had 
struck,  because  her  guns  were  silent;  for,  as  she 
carried  no  flag,  there  was  no  means  of  instantly 
ascertaining  the  fact.  From  this  ship,  which  he 
-had  thus  twice  spared,  he  received  his  death.  A 
ball  fired  from  her  mizzen-top,  which,  in  the  then 
situation  of  the  two  vessels,  was  not  more  than 
fifteen  yards  from  that  part  of  the  deck  where 
he  was  standing,  struck  the  epaulet  on  his  left 
shoulder,  about  a  quarter  after  one,  just  in  the 
heat  of  action.  He  fell  upon  his  face,  on  the 
spot  which  was  covered  with  his  poor  secretary's 
blood.    Hardy,^  who  was  a  few  steps  from  him, 

*From   "The  Life   of  Nelson." 

'  Sir  Thomas  Hardy  was  flag  captain  of  the  Victory, 
Nelson's  ship  at  Trafalgar,  and  acting  captain  of  the 
fleet  during  the  battle.  Hardy  was  walking  on  deck  with 
Nelson  when  Nelson  received  the  shot  that  caused  his  death. 
He  was  made  Yice-Admiral  in   1837. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 


turning  round,  saw  three  men  raising  iiim  up. 
"They  have  done  for  me  at  last,  Hardy,"  said 
he.  "I  hope  not,"  cried  Hardy.  "Yes,"  he 
replied;  "my  backbone  is  shot  through."  Yet 
even  now,  not  for  a  moment  losing  his  presence 
of  mind,  he  observed,  as  they  were  carrying  him 
down  the  ladder,  that  the  tiller  ropes,  which  had 
been  shot  away,  were  not  yet  replaced,  and  or- 
dered that  new  ones  should  be  rove  immediately: 
then,  that  he  might  not  be  seen  by  the  crew,  he 
took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  covered  his  face 
and  his  stars.  Had  he  but  concealed  these  badges 
of  honor  from  the  enemy,  England  perhaps  would 
not  have  had  cause  to  receive  with  sorrow  the 
news  of  the  battle  of  Trafalgar.  The  cockpit  was 
crowded  with  wounded  and  dying  men;  over 
whose  bodies  he  was  with  some  difficulty  con- 
veyed, and  laid  upon  a  pallet  in  the  midshipmen's 
berth.  It  was  soon  perceived,  upon  examination, 
that  the  wound  was  mortal.  This,  however,  was 
concealed  from  all  except  Captain  Hardy,  the 
chaplain,  and  the  medical  attendants.  He  him- 
self being  certain,  from  the  sensation  in  his  back, 
and  the  gush  of  blood  he  felt  momentarily  within 
his  breast,  that  no  human  care  could  avail  him, 
insisted  that  the  surgeon  should  leave  him,  and 
attend  to  those  to  whom  he  might  be  useful; 
"for,"  said  he,  "you  can  do  nothing  for  me." 

All  that  could  be  done  was  to  fan  him  ^^ith 
paper,  and  frequently  to  give  him  lemonade  to 
alleviate  his  intense  thirst.  He  was  in  great  pain, 
and  exprest  much  anxiety,  for  the  event  of  the 
action,  which  now  began  to  declare  itself.  As 
often  as  a  ship  struck,  the  crew  of  the  Victory 
hurrahed;  and  at  every  hurrah  a  visible  exprea- 


V-6  81 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

sion  of  joy  gleamed  in  the  eyes,  and  marked  the 
countenance  of  the  dying  hero.  But  he  became 
impatient  to  see  Hardy;  and  as  tbat  officer,  tho 
often  sent  for,  could  not  leave  the  deck,  Nelson 
feared  that  some  fatal  cause  prevented  him,  and 
repeatedly  cried:  "Will  no  one  bring  Hardy  to 
me?  he  must  be  killed;  he  is  surely  dead!"  An 
hour  and  ten  minutes  elapsed  from  the  time  when 
Nelson  received  his  wound  before  Hardy  could 
come  to  him.  They  shook  hands  in  silence: 
Hardy  in  vain  struggling  to  suppress  the  feelings 
of  that  most  painful  and  yet  sublimest  moment, 
"Well,  Hardy,"  said  Nelson,  "how  goes  the  day 
with  us?"  "Very  well,"  replied  Hardy;  "ten 
ships  have  struck,  but  five  of  the  van  have  tacked, 
and  show  an  intention  to  bear  down  upon  the 
Victory.  I  have  called  two  or  three  of  our  fresh 
ships  round,  and  have  no  doubt  of  giving  them 
a  drubbing."  "I  hope,"  said  Nelson,  "none  of 
our  ships  have  struck?"  Hardy  answered, 
"There  was  no  fear  of  that."  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  Nelson  spoke  of  himself.  "I  am  a  dead 
man.  Hardy,"  said  he;  "I  am  going  fast:  it  will 
be  all  over  with  me  soon.  Come  nearer  to  me. 
Let  my  dear  Lady  Hamilton  have  my  hair,  and 
all  other  things  belonging  to  me."  Hardy  ob- 
served, that  he  hoped  Mr.  Beatty  could  yet  hold 
out  some  prospect  of  life.  "0  no,"  he  replied; 
"it  is  impossible.  My  back  is  shc^t  through, 
Beatty  will  tell  you  so."  Hardy  then,  once  more, 
shook  hands  with  him,  and  with  a  heart  almost 
bursting,  hastened  upon  deck. 

By  this  time  all  feeling  below  the  breast  was 
gone;  and  Nelson,  having  made  the  surgeon  asoeiv 
tain  this,  said  to  him:  "You  know  I  am  goa« 

82 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 


I  know  it.  I  feel  sometliiiig  rising  in  my  breast," 
putting  hia  hand  on  bis  left  side,  "which  tells 
me  so."  And  upon  Beatty's  inquiring  whether 
his  pain  was  very  great,  he  replied,  **So  great 
that  he  wished  he  was  dead.  Yet,"  said  he,  in 
a  lower  voice,  "one  would  like  to  live  a  little 
longer  too!"  And  after  a  few  minutes,  in  the 
same  undertone,  he  added:  "What  would  become 
of  poor  Lady  Hamilton,  if  she  knew  my  situa- 
tion!" Next  to  his  country  she  occupied  his 
thoughts.  Captain  Hardy,  some  fifty  minutes 
after  he  had  left  the  cockpit,  returned;  and,  again 
taking  the  hand  of  his  dying  friend  and  com- 
mander, congratulated  him  on  having  gained  a 
complete  victory.  How  many  of  the  enemy  were 
taken  he  did  not  know,  as  it  was  impossible  to 
perceive  them  distinctly;  but  fourteen  or  fifteen 
at  least.  "That's  well,"  cried  Nelson;  "but  I 
bargained  for  twenty."  And  then,  in  a  stronger 
voice,  he  said:  "Anchor,  Hardy;  anchor." 
Hardy,  upon  this,  hinted  that  Admiral  Colling- 
wood  would  take  upon  himself  the  direction  of 
affairs.  "Not  while  I  live.  Hardy,"  said  the 
dying  Nelson,  ineffectually  endeavoring  to  raise 
himself  from  the  bed:  "do  j'ou  anchor."  His 
previous  orders  for  preparing  to  anchor  had 
shown  clearly  he  foresaw  the  necessity  of  this. 
Presently,  calling  Hardy  back,  he  said  to  him,  in 
a  low  voice,  "Don't  throw  me  overboard";  and 
he  desired  that  he  might  be  buried  by  his  parents, 
unless  it  should  please  the  King  to  order  other- 
wise. Then  reverting  to  private  feelings:  "Take 
care  of  my  dear  Lady  Hamilton.  Hardy:  take 
care  of  poor  Lady  Hamilton.  Kiss  me,  Hardy," 
said  he.    Hardy  knelt  down  and  kissed  his  cheek; 

83 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

and  Nelson  said,  "Now  I  am  satisfied.  Thank 
God,  I  have  done  my  dutyl"  Hardy  stood  over 
him  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  knelt 
again  and  kissed  his  forehead.  **Who  is  that?" 
said  Nelson;  and  being  informed,  he  replied, 
**God  bless  you,  Hardy."  And  Hardy  then  left 
him — forever.  Nelson  now  desired  to  be  turned 
upon  his  right  side,  and  said,  "I  wish  I  had  not 
left  the  deck;  for  I  shall  soon  be  gone."  Death 
was,  indeed,  rapidly  approaching.  He  said  to  the 
chaplain,  **  Doctor,  1  have  not  been  a  great 
sinner";  and  after  a  short  pause,  "Remember 
that  I  leave  Lady  Hamilton  and  my  daughter 
Horatia  as  a  legacy  to  my  country."  His  ar- 
ticulation now  became  difficult;  but  he  was  dis- 
tinctly heard  to  say,  "Thank  God,  I  have  done 
my  duty!"  These  words  he  repeatedly  pro- 
nounced; and  they  were  the  last  words  which  he 
uttered.  He  expired  at  thirty  minutes  after  four 
— three  hours  and  a  quarter  after  he  had  received 
his  wound. 

The  death  of  Nelson  was  felt  in  England  as 
something  more  than  a  public  calamity:  men 
started  at  the  intelligence,  and  turned  pale,  as 
if  they  had  heard  of  the  loss  of  a  dear  friend. 
An  object  of  our  admiration  and  affection,  of 
our  pride  and  of  our  hopes,  was  suddenly  taken 
from  us;  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  had  never  till 
then  known  how  deeply  we  loved  and  reverenced 
him.  What  the  country  had  lost  in  its  great 
naval  hero — the  gi-eatest  of  our  own  and  of  all 
former  times — was  scarcely  taken  into  the  ac- 
count of  gi-ief.  So  perfectly,  indeed,  had  he  per- 
formed his  part,  that  the  maritime  war,  after 
the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  was  considered  at   an 

84 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 


end.  The  fleets  of  the  enemy  were  not  merely 
defeated,  but  destroyed;  new  navies  must  be 
built,  and  a  new  race  of  seamen  reared  for  them, 
before  the  possibility  of  their  invading  our  shores 
could  again  be  contemplated.  It  was  not,  there- 
fore, from  any  selfish  redection  upon  the  magni- 
tude of  our  loss  that  we  mourned  for  him:  the 
general  sorrow  was  of  a  higher  character.  The 
people  of  England  giieved  that  funeral  cere- 
monies, and  public  monuments,  and  posthumous 
rewards,  were  all  which  they  could  now  bestow 
upon  him  whom  the  King,  the  legislature,  and 
the  nation  would  have  alike  delighted  to  honor; 
whom  every  tongue  would  have  blest;  whose 
presence  in  every  village  through  which  he 
might  have  passed  would  have  wakened  the 
church-bells,  have  given  schoolboj's  a  holiday, 
have  drawn  children  from  their  sports  to  gaze 
upon  him,  and  "old  men  from  the  chimney- 
corner"  to  look  upon  Nelson  ere  they  died.  The 
victory  of  Trafalgar  was  celebrated,  indeed,  with 
the  usual  forms  of  rejoicing,  but  they  were  with- 
out joy;  for  such  already  was  the  glory  of  the 
British  navy,  through  Nelson's  surpassing  genius, 
that  it  scarcely  seemed  to  receive  any  addition 
from  the  most  signal  %'ictory  that  ever  was 
achieved  upon  the  seas;  and  the  destruction  of 
this  mighty  fleet,  by  which  all  the  maritime 
schemes  of  France  were  totally  frustrated,  hardly 
appeared  to  add  to  our  security  or  strength;  for, 
while  Nelson  was  living  to  watch  the  combined 
squadrons  of  the  enemy,  we  felt  ourselves  as 
secure  as  now,  when  they  were  no  longer  in 
existence. 
There  was  reason  to  suppose,  from  the  ap- 


85 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

pearances  upon  opening  his  body,  that  in  the 
course  of  nature  he  might  have  attained,  like 
his  father,  to  a  good  old  age.  Yet  he  can  not 
be  said  to  have  fallen  prematurely  whose  work 
was  done;  nor  ought  he  to  be  lamented,  who  died 
so  full  of  honors,  and  at  the  height  of  human 
fame.  The  most  triumphant  death  is  that  of  the 
martyi*;  the  most  awful,  that  of  the  martyred 
patriot;  the  most  splendid,  that  of  the  hero  in 
the  hour  of  victory;  and  if  the  chariot  and  the 
horses  of  fire  had  been  vouchsafed  for  Nelson's 
translation,  he  could  scarcely  have  departed  in 
a  brighter  blaze  of  glory.  He  has  left  us,  not 
indeed  his  mantle  of  inspiration,  but  a  name  and 
an  example  which  are  at  this  hour  inspiring  thou- 
sands of  the  youth  of  Engand — a  name  which  is 
our  pride  and  an  example  which  will  continue  to 
be  our  shield  and  our  strength.  Thus  it  is  that 
the  spirits  of  the  great  and  the  wise  continue  to 
live  and  to  act  after  them. 


a0 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Born  in  1775,  died  in  1864;  educated  at  Oxford;  visited 
Paris  in  1802;  joined  the  Spaniards  at  Corunna  against 
the  French  in  1808;  purchased  Llan*hony  Abbey  in  180H; 
owing  to  family  troubles,  removed  to  Jersey  in  1814;  and 
then  to  Prance  and  Italy,  settling  in  Florence  in  1821t 
where  he  remained  until  his  return  to  England  in  1835; 
hlM  first  book,  a  volume  of  poems,  appeared  in  1796,  and 
hit    last,    "Heroic    Idyls,"    in    1868. 


THE  DEATH  OF  HOFER* 

(1810) 

I  PASSED  two  entire  months  in  Germany,  and 
tike  the  people.  On  my  way  I  saw  Waterloo,  an 
ogly  table  for  an  ugly  game.  At  Innsbruck  I 
entered  the  church  in  which  Andreas  Hofer  is 
bui*ied.  He  lies  under  a  plain  slab,  on  the  left, 
near  the  door.  I  admired  the  magnificent  tomb 
of  bronze,  in  the  center,  surmounted  by  heroes, 
real  and  imaginary.  They  did  not  fight,  tens 
against  thousands;  they  did  not  fight  for  wives 
and  children,  but  for  lands  and  plunder;  there- 
fore they  are  heroes!  My  admiration  for  these 
works  of  art  was  soon  satisfied,  which  perhaps 
it  would  not  have  been  in  any  other  place.    Snow, 

*  Hofer  had  led  the  TTrolese  insnrrection  against  Napo- 
leon's government  in  1809,  gaining  victories  at  Sterzing, 
Innsbruck  and  Isel.  He  became  the  head  of  the  govern' 
ment  of  the  Tyrol  which  for  two  nionths  maintained  her 
freedom. 

87 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

mixt  with  rain,  was  falling,  and  was  blown  by 
the  wind  upon  the  tomb  of  Hofer.  I  thought  how 
often  he  had  taken  advantage  of  such  weather 
for  his  attacks  against  the  enemies  of  his  country, 
and  I  seemed  to  hear  his  whistle  in  the  wind.  At 
the  little  village  of  Landro  (I  feel  a  whimsical 
satisfaction  in  the  likeness  of  the  name  to  mine), 
the  innkeeper  was  the  friend  of  this  truly  great 
man — the  greatest  man  that  Europe  has  produced 
in  our  days,  excepting  his  true  compeer,  Kos- 
ciusko. Andreas  Hofer  gave  him  the  chain  and 
crucifix  he  wore  three  days  before  his  death. 
You  may  imagine  this  man's  enthusiasm,  who, 
because  1  had  said  that  Hofer  was  greater  than 
king  or  emperor,  and  had  made  him  a  present 
of  small  value,  as  the  companion  and  friend  of 
that  harmless  and  irreproachable  hero,  took  this 
precious  relic  from  his  neck  and  offered  itto  me. 
By  the  order  of  Bonaparte,  the  companions  of 
Hofer,  eighty  in  number,  were  chained,  thumb- 
Bcrewed,  and  taken  out  of  prison  in  couples,  to 
see  him  shot.  He  had  about  him  one  thousand 
florins,  in  paper  currency,  which  he  delivered 
to  his  confessor,  requesting  him  to  divide  it  im- 
partially among  his  unfortunate  countrymen. 
The  confessor,  an  Italian  who  spoke_  German, 
kept  it,  and  never  gave  relief  from  it  to  any 
of  them,  most  of  whom  were  suffering,  not  only 
from  privation  of  wholesome  air,  to  which,  among 
other  privations,  they  never  had  been  accustomed, 
but  also  from  scantiness  of  nourishment  and 
clothing.  Even  in  Mantua,  where,  as  in  the  rest 
of  Italy,  sympathy  is  both  weak  and  silent,  the 
lowest  of  the  people  were  indignant  at  the  sight 
of  so  brave  a  defender  of  his  country  led  into 

88 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


the  public  square  to  expiate  a  crime  unheard  of 
for  many  centuries  in  their  nation,  ^\^len  they 
saw  him  walk  forth,  with  unaltered  conutenanee 
and  finn  step  before  them;  when,  stopping  on 
the  ground  which  was  about  to  receive  his  blood, 
they  heard  him  with  uufaltenng  voice  commevid 
his  soul  and  his  country  to  the  Creator;  and,  as 
if  still  under  his  own  roof  (a  custom  with  him 
after  the  evening  prayer),  implore  a  blessing  for 
his  boys  and  his  little  daughter,  and  for  the 
mother  who  had  reared  them  up  carefully  and 
tenderly  thus  far  through  the  perils  of  child- 
hood ;  finally,  when  in  a  lower  tone,  but  earnestly 
and  emphatically,  he  besought  pardon  from  the 
Fount  of  Mercy  for  her  brother,  his  betrayer, 
many  smote  their  breasts  aloud;  many,  thinking 
that  sorrow  was  shameful,  lowered  their  heads 
and  wept;  many,  knowing  that  it  was  dangerous, 
yet  wept  too.  The  people  remained  upon  the 
spot  an  unusual  time,  and  the  French,  fearing 
some  commotion,  pretended  to  have  received  an 
order  from  Bonaparte  for  the  mitigation  of  the 
sentence,  and  publicly  announced  it. 

Among  his  many  falsehoods,  any  one  of  which 
would  have  excluded  him  forever  from  the  society 
of  men  of  honor,  this  is  perhaps  the  basest;  as 
indeed  of  all  his  atrocities  the  death  of  Hofer, 
which  he  had  ordered  long  before,  and  appointed 
the  time  and  circumstances,  is  that  which  the 
brave  and  virtuous  will  reprobate^  the  most 
severely.  He  was  urged  by  no  necessity,  he  was 
prompted  by  no  policy ;  his  impatience  of  courage 
in  an  enemy,  his  hatred  of  patriotism  and  integ- 
rity in  all,  of  which  he  had  no  idea  himself,  and 
saw  no  image  in  those  about  him,  outstript  his 

89 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

blind  passion  for  fame,  and  left  him  nothing 
but  power  and  celebrity. 

The  name  of  Andreas  Hofer  ■will  be  honored 
by  posterity  far  above  any  of  the  present  age, 
and  together  with  the  most  glorious  of  the  last, 
Washington  and  Kosciusko.  For  it  rests  on  the 
same  foundation,  and  indeed  on  a  higher  basis. 
In  virtue  and  wisdom  their  coequal,  he  van- 
quished on  several  occasions  a  force  greatly  supe- 
rior to  his  own  in  numbers  and  in  discipline,  by 
the  courage  and  confidence  he  inspired,  and  by 
his  brotherly  care  and  anxiety  for  those  who 
were  fighting  at  his  side.  Differently,  far  dif- 
ferently, ought  we  to  estimate  the  squanderers 
of  human  blood,  and  the  scorners  of  human  tears. 
We  also  may  boast  of  our  great  men  in  a  cause 
as  great;  for  without  it  they  could  not  be  so. 
We  may  look  back  upon  our  Blake;  whom  the 
prodigies  of  a  Nelson  do  not  eclipse,  nor  would 
he  have  wished  (such  was  his  generosity)  to 
obscure  it.  Blake  was  among  the  founders  of 
freedom;  Nelson  was  the  vanquisher  of  its  de- 
Btroyei's.  Washington  was  both;  Kosciusko  was 
neither;  neither  was  Hofer.  But  the  aim  of  all 
three  was  alike;  and  in  the  armory  of  God  are 
suspended  the  arms  the  two  last  of  them  bore; 
suspended  for  success  more  signal  and  for  venge- 
ance more  complete. 

I  am  writing  this  from  Venice,  which  is  among 
cities  what  Shakespeare  is  among  men.  He  will 
give  her  immortality  by  his  works,  which  neither 
her  patron  saint  could  do,  nor  her  surrounding 
eea. 


90 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

n 

NAPOLEON  AND  PERICLES 

Two  powerful  nations  have  been  vitally  af- 
fected by  natural  calamities.  The  former  of 
these  calamities  was  inevitable  by  human  pru- 
dence, and  uncontrollable  by  human  skill;  the 
latter  was  to  be  foreseen  at  any  distance  by 
the  most  ignorant,  and  to  be  avoided  by  the 
most  unwary.  I  mean  in  the  first  the  Plague 
of  the  Athenians;  in  the  second  the  starvation 
of  the  French.  The  first  happened  under  the 
administration  of  a  man  transcendently  brave; 
a  man  cautious,  temperate,  eloquent,  prompt, 
sagacious,  above  all  that  ever  guided  the  coun- 
cils and  animated  the  enei'gies  of  a  state;  the 
second  under  a  soldier  of  fortune,  expert  and 
enthusiastic;  but  often  deficient  in  moral  courage, 
not  seldom  in  personal ;  rude,  insolent,  rash, 
rapacious;  valuing  but  one  human  life  among 
the  myriads  at  his  disposal,  and  that  one  far 
from  the  worthiest,  in  the  estimation  of  an  hon- 
ester  and  a  saner  mind. 

It  is  with  reluctant  shame  I  enter  on  a  com- 
parison of  such  a  person  and  Pericles.  On  one 
hand  we  behold  the  richest  cultivation  of  the 
most  varied  and  extensive  genius;  the  confidence 
of  courage,  the  sedateness  of  wisdom,  the  statcli- 
ness  of  integrity;  on  the  other,  coarse  manners, 
rude  language,  \'iolent  passions  continually  ex* 
ploding,  a  bottomless  void  on  the  side  of  truth, 
and   a   rueful   waste   on   that   of  common  hon- 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

esty.  ...  So  many  pernicious  faults  were 
not  committed  by  Xerxes  or  Darius,  whom  an- 
cient historians  call  feeble  princes,  as  were  com- 
mitted by  Napoleon,  whom  the  modern  do  not 
call  feeble,  because  he  felt  nothing  for  othei*s, 
coerced  pertinaciously,  promised  rashly,  gave  in- 
discriminately, looked  tranquilly,  and  spoke  mj's- 
teriously.  Even  in  his  flight,  signalized  by  noth- 
ing but  despondency,  Segur,  his  panegyrist,  hath 
clearly  shown  that,  had  he  retained  any  presence 
of  mind,  any  sympathy,  or  any  shame,  he  might 
have  checked  and  crippled  his  adversary.  One 
glory  he  shares  with  Trajan  and  with  Pericles,  and 
neither  time  nor  malice  can  diminish  it.  He 
raised  up  and  rewarded  all  kinds  of  merit,  even 
in  those  arts  to  which  he  was  a  stranger.  In 
this  indeed  he  is  more  remarkable,  perhaps  more 
admirable,  than  Pericles  himself,  for  Pericleb  was 
a  stranger  to  none  of  them. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

Born  in  The  Temple,  London,  1775,  died  in  1834;  his 
fatiiet  tiie  clerli  of  a  bcnciier  in  the  Inner  Temple ;  entered 
Christ  Hospital  in  1782,  where  he  met  Coleridge  and  re- 
mained seven  years;  became  a  clerk  in  the  South  Sea 
House  in  1789,  and  in  the  India  House  in  1792;  hie  sister, 
Mary  Lamb,  in  a  fit  of  temporary  insanity,  killed  their 
mother  in  1796,  Charles  becoming  her  guardian  for  the 
remainder  of  her  life;  began  to  publish  verse  in  1796; 
published  "Rosamond  Gray"  in  1798,  a  two-act  farce  pro- 
duced at  Drury  Lane  in  1805,  "Tales  from  Shakespeare," 
in  which  his  sister  shared  the  labor  with  him,  in  1807; 
and  essays  in  various  magazines,  first  collected  in  1823  aa 
the  "Essays  of  Ella";  went  abroad  with  his  sister  in  1822; 
retired  from  the  India  House  with  a  pension  of  £441  in 
1825;  published  the  "Last  Eesfiys  of  Elia"   in  1833. 


DREAM-CHILDREN— A  REVERIE* 

Childrbn  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their 
elders,  wheu  they  were  children;  to  stretch  their 
imagination  to  the  conception  of  a  traditionary 
great-uncle,  or  grandame,  whom  they  never  saw. 
It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept 
about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their 
great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived  in  a  great 
house  in  Norfolk — a  hundred  times  bigger  than 
that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived — which  had 
been  the  scene — so  at  least  it  was  generally  be- 
lieved in  that  part  of  the  country — of  the  tragic 
incidents  which  they  had  lately  become  familiar 

»rrom  the  "Essays  of  Elia." 

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THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

with  from  the  ballad  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood. 
Certain  it  is  that  the  whole  story  of  the  children 
and  their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved 
out  in  wood  upon  the  chimney-piece  of  the  great 
hall,  the  whole  story  down  to  the  Robin  Red- 
breasts, till  a  foolish  rich  uncle  pulled  it  down 
to  set  up  a  marble  one  of  modern  invention  in 
its  stead,  with  no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put 
out  one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to 
be  called  upbraiding. 

Then  I  went  on  to  say  how  religious  and  how 
good  their  great-grandmother  Field  was,  how 
beloved  and  respected  by  everybody,  tho  she  was 
not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but 
had  only  the  charge  of  it — and  yet  in  some  re- 
spects she  might  be  said  to  be  the  mistress  of 
it  too — committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who  pre- 
ferred living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable 
mansion  which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in 
the  adjoining  county;  but  still  she  lived  in  it 
in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept 
up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  in  a  sort  while 
she  lived,  which  afterward  came  to  decay,  and 
was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  orna- 
ments stript  and  carried  away  to  the  owner's 
other  house,  where  they  were  set  up,  and  looked 
as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to  carry  away 
the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey, 
and  stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt 
drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "That  would  be  foolish  indeed.''  And 
then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her 
funeral  was  attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the 
poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry  too,  of  the  neigh- 
borhood for  many   miles  round,   to   show   their 

94 


CHARLES  LAMB 


respect  for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been 
8uch  a  good  and  religions  woman ;  so  good,  indeed, 
that  she  knew  all  the  Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and 
a  great  part  of  the  Testament  besides.  Here 
little  Alice  spread  her  hands. 

Then  I  told  what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  per- 
son their  great-grandmother  Field  once  was;  and 
how  in  her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the  best 
dancer.  Here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played  an 
involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking 
grave,  it  desisted — the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying, 
in  the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer, 
came,  and  bowed  her  down  with  pain;  but  it 
could  never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them 
stoop,  but  they  were  still  upright,  because  she 
was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I  told  how  she 
was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  chamber 
of  the  great  lone  house;  and  how  she  believed 
that  an  apparition  of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen 
at  midnight  gliding  up  and  down  the  great  stair- 
case near  where  she  slept;  but  she  said  "those 
innocents  would  do  her  no  harm";  and  how 
frightened  I  used  to  be,  tho  in  those  days  I  had 
my  maid  to  sleep  with  me,  because  I  was  never 
half  so  good  or  religious  as  she — and  yet  I  never 
saw  the  infants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his 
eyebrows,  and  tried  to  look  courageous. 

Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grand- 
children, having  us  to  the  great  house  in  the 
holidays,  where  I,  in  particular,  used  to  spend 
many  houi-s  by  myself  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts 
of  the  twelve  Cscsars  that  had  been  emperors 
of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem 
to  live  again,  or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble 
with   them;    how   I   never   could   be   tired   with 

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THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

roaming  about  that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast 
empty  rooms,  with  their  worn-out  hauging-s,  flut- 
tering tapestry,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with 
the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out — sometimes  in  the 
spacious  old-fashioned  gardens,  which  I  had  al- 
most to  myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a 
solitary  gardening  man  would  cross  me — and  how 
the  nectai-ines  and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls, 
without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because 
they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then, 
and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling 
about  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew- 
trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries 
and  the  fir  apples,  which  were  good  for  nothing 
but  to  look  at;  or  in  Ij'ing  about  upon  the  fresh 
grass,  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around 
me ;  or  basking  in  the  orangerj^  till  I  could  almost 
fancy  myelf  ripening,  too,  along  with  the  or- 
anges and  the  limes,  iu  that  grateful  warmth ; 
or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro 
in  the  fish-pond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with 
here  and  there  a  great  sulky  pike  hanging  mid- 
way down  the  water  in  silent  state,  as  if  it 
mocked  at  their  impertinent  friskings.  I  had 
more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle  diversions  than 
in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  ne«tarines, 
oranges,  and  such  like  common  baits  of  children. 
Here  John  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the  plate 
a  bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by 
Alice,  he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and 
both  seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them  for  the 
present  as  irrelevant.  Then,  in  somewhat  a  more 
heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  tho  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren, 
yet  in  an  especial  manner  she  might  be  said  to 

96 


CHARLES  LAMB 


love  their  uncle,  John  L ,  because  he  was  so 

handsome  and  spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king  to 
the  rest  of  us;  and,  instead  of  moping  about  in 
solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount 
the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when 
but  an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and  make 
it  carry  him  half  over  the  county  in  a  morning, 
and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any  out  j 
and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and  gardens 
too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always  pent 
up  within  their  boundaries;  and  how  their  uncle 
grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was 
handsome,  to  the  admiration  of  everybody,  but 
of  the  great-grandmother  Field  most  especially; 
and  how  he  used  o  carry  me  upon  his  back  when 
I  was  a  lame-fooced  boy — for  he  was  a  good  bit 
older  than  me — many  a  mile  when  I  could  not 
walk  for  pain;  and  how,  in  after-life,  he  became 
lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not  always,  I  fear, 
make  allowances  enough  for  him  when  he  was 
impatient  and  in  pain,  nor  remember  sutficiently 
how  considerate  he  had  been  to  me  when  I  was 
lame-footed;  and  how,  Avhen  he  died,  tho  he  had 
not  been  dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
died  a  great  while  ago,  such  a  distance  there 
is  betwixt  life  and  death;  and  how  I  bore  his 
death,  as  I  thought,  pretty  well  at  first,  but 
afterward  it  haunted  and  haunted  me;  and  tho 
I  did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do,  and 
as  I  think  he  would  have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet 
I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then 
bow  much  I  had  loved  him, 

I  missed  his  kindness,  and  I  missed  his  cross- 
ness, and  wished  him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be 
Quarreling  with  him — for  we  quarreled  sometimes 


V-7  97 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

— rather  than  not  have  him  again;  and  was  as 
uneasy  without  him,  as  he,  their  poor  uncle,  must 
have  been  when  the  doctor  took  off  his  limb. 
Here  the  children  fell  a-crying,  and  asked  if 
their  little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not 
for  Uncle  John;  and  they  looked  up  and  prayed 
me  not  to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell 
them  some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead  mother. 
Then  I  told  how,  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope 
sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting 
ever,  I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W — n;  and,  as 
much  as  children  could  understand,  I  explained 
to  them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial 
meant  in  maidens;  when  suddenly  turning  to 
Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at 
her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of  representment, 
that  I  became  in  doubt  which  oi  them  stood  there 
before  me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair  was;  and 
while  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children  gradually 
grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  re- 
ceding, till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  fea- 
tures were  seen  in  the  uttermost  distance,  which, 
without  speech,  strangely  imprest  upon  me  the 
effects  of  speech:  "We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of 
thee;  nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  children 
of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing, 
less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only 
what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait  upon  the 
tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before 
we  have  existence  and  a  name";  and  immediately 
awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my 
bachelor  arm-chair,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep, 
with  the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side 
•—but  John  L.  (or  James  Elia)  was  gone  forever. 


CHARLES  LAMB 


n 

POOR  RELATIONS  • 

A  POOR  relation  is  the  most  irrelevant  thing  in 
nature,  a  piece  of  impertinent  correspondency, 
an  odious  approximation,  a  haunting  conscience, 
a  preposterous  shadow,  lengthening  in  the  noon- 
tide of  your  prosperity,  an  unwelcome  remem- 
brancer, a  perpetually  recurring  mortification,  a 
drain  on  your  purse,  a  more  intolerable  dun  upon 
your  pride,  a  drawback  upon  success,  a  rebuke 
to  your  rising,  a  stain  in  your  blood,  a  blot  on 
your  scutcheon,  a  rent  in  your  garment,  a  death's- 
head  at  your  banquet,  Agathoeles'  pot,  a  Mor- 
decai  in  your  gate,  a  Lazarus  at  your  door,  a 
lion  in  your  path,  a  frog  in  your  chamber,  a  fly 
in  your  ointment,  a  mote  in  your  eye,  a  triumph 
to  your  enemy,  an  apology  to  your  friends,  the 
one  thing  not  needful,  the  hail  in  harvest,  the 
ounce  of  sour  in  a  pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.    Your  heart  telleth 

^ou,  "That  is  Mr.  ."    A  i-ap  between  faLiil- 

larity  and  respect,  that  demands,  and  at  tLe 
same  time  seems  to  despair  of  entei'tainment. 
He  entereth  smiling  and  embarrassed.  He  holdeth 
out  his  hand  to  you  to  shake,  and  draweth  it 
back  again.  He  casually  looketh  in  about  dinner- 
time, when  the  table  is  full.  He  oflfereth  to  go 
away,  seeing  you  have  company,  but  is  induced 
to  stay.  He  filleth  a  chair,  and  your  visitor's 
two  children  are  accommodated  at  a  side-table. 

*  From  the  "Essaye  of  Elia." 
99 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

He  never  cometh  upon  open  days,  when  your  wife 
says  with  some  complacency:  "My  dear,  perhaps 

Mr. will  drop  in  to-day."    He  remembereth 

birthdaj's,  and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to  have 
stumbled  upon  one.  He  declareth  against  fish, 
the  turbot  being  small,  yet  suffereth  himself  to 
be  importuned  into  a  slice  against  his  first  reso- 
lution. He  sticketh  by  the  port,  yet  will  be 
prevailed  up  to  empty  the  remainder  glass  of 
claret,  if  a  stranger  press  it  upon  him.  He  is 
a  puzzle  to  the  servants,  who  are  fearful  of  being 
too  obsequious,  or  not  ci\'il  enough  to  him.  The 
guests  think  "they  have  seen  him  before."  Ev- 
ery one  speculateth  upon  his  condition;  and  the 
most  part  take  him  to  be  a  tide-waiter.  He 
calleth  you  by  your  Christian  name,  to  imply  that 
his  other  is  the  same  with  your  own.  He  is  too 
familiar  by  half,  yet  you  wish  he  had  less  dif- 
fidence. With  half  the  familiarity,  he  might  pass 
for  a  casual  dependent;  with  more  boldness,  he 
would  be  in  no  danger  of  being  taken  for  what 
he  is.  He  is  too  humble  for  a  friend,  yet  taketh 
on  him  more  state  than  befits  a  client.  He  is  a 
worse  guest  than  a  country  tenant,  inasmuch  as 
he  bringeth  up  no  rent ;  yet  'tis  odds,  from  his  garb 
and  demeanor,  that  your  guests  take  him  for  one. 
He  is  asked  to  make  one  at  the  whist-table;  refuseth 
on  the  score  of  poverty,  and  resents  being  left  out. 
When  the  company  break  up,  he  proferreth  to  go 
for  a  coach,  and  lets  the  servant  go.  He  recollects 
your  grandfather;  and  will  thrust  in  some  mean 
and  quite  unimportant  anecdote  of  the  family. 
He  knew  it  when  it  was  not  quite  so  flourishing 
as  "he  is  blest  in  seeing  it  now."  He  reviveth 
past  situations,  to  institute  what  he  calleth  fa- 

liOO 


CHARLES  LAMB 


vorable  comparisons.  With  a  reflecting  sort  of 
congratulation  he  will  Inquire  the  price  of  your 
furniture;  and  insult  \ou  with  a  special  com- 
mendation of  your  window-curtains.  He  is  of 
opinion  that  the  urn  is  the  more  elegant  shape; 
but,  after  all,  there  was  something  more  com- 
fortable about  the  old  tea-kettle,  which  you  must 
remember.  He  dare  say  you  must  find  a  great 
convenience  in  having  a  carriage  of  your  own, 
and  appealeth  to  your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  In- 
quireth  if  you  have  had  your  arms  done  on 
vellum  yet;  and  did  not  know  till  lately  that 
such  and  such  had  been  the  crest  of  the  family. 
His  memory  is  unseasonable,  his  compliments 
perverse,  his  talk  a  trouble,  his  stay  pertinacious; 
and  when  he  goeth  awa}',  you  dismiss  his  chair 
into  a  corner  as  precipitately  as  possible,  and 
feel  fairly  rid  of  two  nuisances. 

There  is  a  woi^se  evil  under  the  sun,  and  that 
is  a  female  poor  relation.  You  may  do  something 
with  the  other;  you  may  pass  him  olf  tolerably 
well;  but  your  indigent  she-relative  is  hopeless. 
"He  is  an  old  humorist,"  you  may  say,  *'and 
affects  to  go  threadbare.  His  circumstances  are 
better  than  folks  would  take  them  to  be.  You 
are  fond  of  having  a  character  at  your  table, 
and  truly  he  is  one."  But  in  the  indications  of 
female  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise.  No  wom- 
an dresses  below  herself  from  caprice.  The  truth 
must  out  without  shutlling.  "She  is  plainly  re- 
lated to  the  L s,  or  what  does  she  at  their 

house?"  She  is.  in  all  probability,  your  wife's 
cousin.  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is 
the  case.  Her  garb  is  something  between  a  gen- 
tlewoman and  a  beggar,  yet  the  former  evidently 

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THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

predominates.  She  is  most  provokingly  humble, 
and  ostentatiously  sensible  to  her  inferiority.  He 
may  require  to  be  represt  sometimes — aliquando 
sufflaminandus  erat — but  there  is  no  raising  her. 
You  send  her  soup  at  dinner,  and  she  begs  to 

be  helped  after  the  gentlemen.    Mr. requests 

the  honor  of  taking  wine  with  her;  she  hesitates 
between  port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses  the  for- 
mer because  he  does.  She  calls  the  servant  sir, 
and  insists  on  not  ti'oubling  him  to  hold  her 
plate.  The  housekeeper  patronizes  her.  The 
children's  governess  takes  upon  her  to  correct 
her  when  she  has  mistaken  the  piano  for  a  harp- 
sichord. 


m 

THE  ORIGIN  OF  ROAST  PIG» 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which 
my  friend  M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read  and 
explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy  thousand  ages 
ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from 
the  li\ang  animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia 
to-day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  hinted  at 
by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chapter 
of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  designates 
a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho  fang,  lit- 
erally the  Cooks'  Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes 
on  to  say,  that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather 
broiling  (which  I  take  to  be  the  elder  brother) 
was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  manner  fol- 
lowing.    The  swineherd  Ho-ti,  ha\'ing  gone  out 

•From  the  "EsBays  of  Elia." 


CHARLES  LAMB 


into  the  woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was, 
to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in 
the  care  of  his  eldest  son,  Bo-bo,  a  gi-eat  lubberly 
boy,  who  being  fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as 
j'ounkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  some 
sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which 
kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over 
every  part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was 
reduced  to  ashes.  Together  with  the  cottage  (a 
sorry  antediluvian  makeshift  of  a  building,  you 
may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more  impor- 
tance, a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less 
than  nine  in  number,  perished. 

China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury  all 
over  the  East,  from  the  remotest  periods  that 
we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  consterna- 
tion, as  you  may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake 
of  the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  coulj 
easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches, 
and  the  labor  of  an  hour  or  two,  at  any  time, 
as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he  was  thinking 
what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and  ^vl•inging 
bis  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of 
those  untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his 
nostrils,  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before 
experienced.  What  could  it  proceed  from? — not 
from  the  burned  cottage — he  had  smelt  that  smell 
before — indeed  this  was  by  no  means  the  first 
accident  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred  through 
the  negligence  of  this  unlucky  young  firebrand. 
Much  less  did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb, 
weed  or  flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the 
same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He  knew 
not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped  down  to 
feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in 


103 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

it.  He  burned  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he 
applied  them  in  his  booby  fashion  to  his  mouth. 
Some  of  the  crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had 
come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life,  indeed,  for  before 
him  no  man  had  known  it)  he  tasted — crackling! 
Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did 
not  burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his 
fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit. 

The  truth  at  length  broke  into  his  slow  under- 
standing that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and 
the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious;  and  surrendering 
himseif  up  to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to 
tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin 
with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down 
his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when  his  sire  en- 
tered amid  the  smoking  rafters,  armed  with  retrib- 
utory  cudgel,  and  finding  how  affairs  stood,  began 
to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue 's  shoulders,  as 
thick  as  hail  stones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any 
more  than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The  tickling 
pleasure  which  he  experienced  in  his  lower  re- 
gions had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  in- 
conveniences he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quar- 
ters. His  father  might  lay  on,  but  he  could  not 
beat  him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made 
an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more  sen- 
sible of  his  situation,  something  like  the  following 
dialog  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there 
devouring?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have 
burned  me  down  three  houses  with  your  dog's 
tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you!  but  you  must  be 
eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what — what  have 
you  got  there,  I  say?" 

104 


CHARLES  LAMB 


"0  father,  the  pig,  the  pig!  do  come  and  taste 
how  nice  the  burned  pig  eats." 

Tlie  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He 
curst  his  son,  and  he  curst  himself  that  ever 
he  should  beget  a  son  that  should  eat  burned  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened 
since  morning,  soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and 
fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser  half 
by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting 
out,  **Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burned  pig,  father,  only 
taste — 0  Lord" — with  such  like  barbarous  ejac- 
nlations,  ci'amming  all  the  while  as  if  he  would 
choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  be  grasped 
the  abominable  thing,  wavering  whether  he  should 
not  put  his  son  to  death  for  an  unnatural  young 
monster,  when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers, 
as  it  had  done  his  son 's,  and  applying  the  samf 
remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted  some  ol 
its  flavor,  which,  make  what  scur  mouths  he 
would  for  pretense,  proved  not  altogether  dis- 
pleasing to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manu- 
script here  is  a  little  tedious)  both  father  and 
son  fairly  sat  down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left 
off  till  they  had  dispatched  all  that  remained 
of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret 
escape,  for  the  neighbors  would  certainly  have 
stoned  them  for  a  couple  of  abominable  wretches, 
who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the  good 
meat  which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless 
strange  stories  got  about.  It  was  observed  that 
Ho-ti 's  cottage  was  burned  down  now  moi*e  fre- 
quently than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this 
tune  forward.    Some  would  break  out  in  broad 


106 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

day,  others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the 
sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti 
to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  himself,  which  was 
the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising  his 
son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than 
ever.  At  length  they  were  watched,  the  terrible 
mystery  discovered,  and  father  and  son  sum- 
moned to  take  their  trial  at  Peking,  then  an  in- 
considerable assize  town.  Evidence  was  given, 
the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  in  court,  and 
verdict  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the  fore- 
man of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burned 
pig,  of  which  the  culprits  stood  accused,  might 
be  handed  into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they 
all  handled  it ;  and  burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo 
and  his  father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature 
prompting  each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against 
the  faces  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge 
which  judge  had  ever  given — to  the  surprize  of 
the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  strangers,  reporters, 
and  all  present — without  leaving  the  box,  or  any 
manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they  brought 
in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked 
at  the  manifest  iniquity  of  the  decision;  and 
when  the  court  was  dismissed,  went  privily,  and 
bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for  love 
or  money.  In  a  few  days  his  lordship's  town- 
house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire.  The  thing  took 
wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but 
fire  in  every  direction.  Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enor- 
mously dear  all  over  the  district.  The  insurance 
offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  People  built 
Blighter  and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was 
feared  that  the  very  science  of  architecture  would 

106 


CHARLES  LAMB 


in  no  long  time  be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus  this 
custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till  in  process 
of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like 
our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery,  that  the  flesh 
of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might 
be  cooked  (burned,  as  they  call  it)  without  the 
necessity  of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it. 
Then  first  began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron. 
Roasting  by  the  string  or  spit  came  in  a  century 
or  two  later,  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such 
slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do  the 
most  useful  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious  arts, 
make  their  way  among  mankind. 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  ac- 
count above  given,  it  must  be  agreed,  that  if  a 
worthy  pretext  for  so  dangerous  an  experiment 
as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these  days) 
could  be  assigned  in  favor  of  any  culinary  object, 
that  pretext  and  excuse  might  be  found  in  roast 
PIG. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edi- 
hilis,  I  will  maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate 
— princepa  obsoniorum. 


IV 

THAT  WE  SHOULD  RISE  WITH  THE 
LARK* 

At  what  precise  minute  that  little  airy  mu- 
sician doffs  his  night  gear,  and  prepares  to  tune 
up  his  unseasonable  matins,  we  are  not  natural- 
ists enough  to  determine.    But  for  a  mere  human 

*  Prom  the  "Essays  ot  Elia." 

107 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

gentleman — that  has  no  orchestra  business  to  call 
him  from  his  warm  bed  to  such  preposterous  ex- 
ercise— we  take  ten,  or  half  after  ten  (eleven,  of 
course,  during  this  Christmas  solstice),  to  be  the 
very  earliest  hour  at  which  he  can  begin  to  think 
of  abandoning  his  pillow.  To  think  of  it,  we  say; 
for  to  do  it  in  earnest  requires  another  half  hour's 
good  consideration.  Not  but  there  are  pretty  sun- 
risings,  as  we  are  told,  and  such  like  gauds  abroad 
in  the  world  in  summer-time  especially,  some  hours 
before  what  we  have  assigned,  which  a  gentle- 
man may  see,  as  they  say,  only  for  getting  up. 
But  having  been  tempted  once  or  twice,  in  earlier 
life,  to  assist  at  those  ceremonies,  we  confess  our 
curiosity  abated.  We  are  no  longer  ambitious  of 
being  the  sun 's  courtiers,  to  attend  at  his  morn- 
ing levees.  We  hold  the  good  hours  of  the  dawn 
too  sacred  to  waste  them  upon  such  observances; 
which  have  in  them,  besides,  something  pagan 
and  Persic.  To  say  truth,  Ave  never  anticipated 
our  usual  hour,  or  got  up  with  the  sun  (as  'tis 
called),  to  go  a  journey,  or  upon  a  foolish  whole 
day's  pleasuring,  but  we  suffered  for  it  all  the 
long  hours  after  in  listlessness  and  headaches; 
Nature  herself  sufficiently  declaring  her  sense  of 
our  presumption  in  aspiring  to  regulate  our  frail 
waking  courses  by  the  measures  of  that  celestial 
and  sleepless  traveler.  We  deny  not  that  there 
is  something  sprightly  and  vigorous,  at  the  out- 
Bet  especiallj^,  in  these  break-of-day  excursions. 
It  is  flattering  to  get  the  start  of  a  lazy  world, 
to  conquer  death  by  proxy  in  his  image.  But  the 
seeds  of  sleep  and  mortality  are  in  us;  and  we 
pay  usually,  in  strange  qualms  before  night  falls, 
the  penalty  of  the  unnatural  inversion. 

108 


CHARLES  LAMB 


Therefore,  while  the  busy  part  of  mankind  are 
fast  huddling  on  their  clothes,  or  are  already 
up  and  about  their  occupations,  content  to  have 
swallowed  their  sleep  by  wholesale,  we  choose 
to  linger  abed,  and  digest  our  dreams.  It  is  the 
very  time  to  recombine  the  wandering  images 
which  night  in  a  confused  mass  presented;  to 
snatch  them  from  forgetfulness;  to  shape  and 
mold  them.  Some  people  have  no  good  of  their 
dreams.  Like  fast  feeders,  they  gulp  them  too 
grossly  to  taste  them  curiously.  We  love  to  chew 
the  cud  of  a  foregone  vision;  to  collect  the  scat- 
tered rays  of  a  brighter  phantasm,  or  act  over 
again,  with  firmer  nerves,  the  sadder  nocturnal 
tragedies;  to  drag  into  daylight  a  struggling  and 
half-vanishing  nightmare;  to  handle  and  examine 
the  terrors  or  the  aii'y  solaces.  We  have  too 
much  respect  for  these  spiritual  communications 
to  let  them  go  so  lighty.  We  are  not  so  stupid 
or  so  careless  as  that  imperial  forgetter  of  his 
dreams,  that  we  should  need  a  seer  to  remind  us 
of  the  form  of  them.  They  seem  to  us  to  have  as 
much  significance  as  our  waking  concerns;  or 
rather  to  import  us  more  nearly,  as  more  nearly 
we  approach  by  years  to  the  shadowy  world 
whither  we  are  hastening.  We  have  shaken  hands 
■with  the  world's  business;  we  have  done  with  it; 
we  have  discharged  ourselves  of  it. 

Why  should  Ave  get  up?  We  have  neither  suit 
to  solicit,  nor  affairs  to  manage.  The  drama  has 
shut  in  upon  us  at  the  fourth  act.  We  have 
nothing  here  to  expect  but  in  a  short  time  a  sick- 
bed and  a  dismissal.  We  delight  to  anticipate 
death  b\'  such  shadows  as  night  affords.  We  are 
already  half  acquainted  with  ghosts.     We  were 


109 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

never  much  in  the  world.  Disappointment  early 
struck  a  dark  veil  between  us  and  its  dazzling 
illusions.  Our  spirits  showed  gray  before  our 
hairs.  The  mighty  changes  of  the  world  already 
appear  as  but  the  vain  stuff  out  of  which  dramas 
are  composed.  We  have  asked  no  more  of  life 
than  what  the  mimic  images  in  playhouses  pre- 
sent us  with.  Even  those  types  have  waxed 
fainter.  Our  clock  appears  to  have  struck.  We 
are  superannuated.  In  this  dearth  of  mundane 
satisfaction,  we  contract  politic  alliances  with 
shadows.  It  is  good  to  have  friends  at  court. 
The  abstracted  media  of  dreams  seem  no  ill  in- 
troduction to  that  spiritual  presence,  upon  which, 
in  no  long  time,  we  expect  to  be  thrown.  We  are 
trying  to  know  a  little  of  the  usages  of  that 
colony;  to  learn  the  language,  and  the  faces  we 
shall  meet  with  there,  that  we  may  be  the  less 
awkward  at  our  first  coming  among  them.  We 
willingly  call  a  fantom  our  fellow,  as  knowing 
we  shall  soon  be  of  their  dark  companionship. 
Therefore  we  cherish  dreams.  We  try  to  spell  in 
them  the  alphabet  of  the  invisible  world,  and 
think  we  know  already  how  it  shall  be  with  us. 
Those  uncouth  shapes,  which,  while  we  clung  to 
flesh  and  blood,  affrighted  us,  have  become  famil- 
iar. We  feel  attached  into  their  meager 
essences,  and  have  given  the  hand  of  half-way 
approach  to  incorporeal  being.  We  once  thought 
life  to  be  something,  but  it  has  unaccountably 
fallen  from  us  before  its  time.  Therefore  we 
choose  to  dally  with  visions.  The  sun  has  no 
purposes  of  ours  to  light  us  to.  Why  should  we 
get  up? 


110 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT 

Bom  in  1778,  died  in  1830;  an  early  friend  of  Lamb, 
Coleridge,  Southey,  Moore  and  Leigh  Hunt,  with  whom 
he  afterward  quarreled,  owing  to  differing  political  viewB 
and  his  own  peculiar  temper;  his  writings  mainly  essays 
and  criticisms;  wrote  also  a  notable  "Life  of  Napoleon," 
published  in  1828. 


HAMLET  ^ 

It  is  the  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays  that  we 
think  of  the  oftenest,  because  it  sounds  most  in 
striking  reflections  on  human  life,  and  because 
the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are  transferred,  by 
the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the  general  account  of 
humanity.  Whatever  happens  to  him,  we  apply 
to  ourselves,  because  he  applies  it  to  himself  as 
a  means  of  general  reasoning.  He  is  a  great 
moralizer;  and  what  makes  him  worth  attending 
tc  is  that  he  moralizes  on  his  own  feelings  and 
experience.  He  is  not  a  commonplace  pedant. 
If  Lear  is  distinguished  by  the  greatest  depth  of 
passion,  Hamlet  is  the  most  remarkable  for  the 
ingenuity,  originality,  and  unstudied  development 
of  character.  Shakespeare  had  more  magnanimity 
than  any  other  poet,  and  he  has  shown  more  of 
it  in  this  play  than  in  any  other.  There  is  no 
attempt  to  force  an  interest:  everything  is  left 
for  time  and  circumstances  to  unfold.  The  at- 
tention is  excited  without  effort;  the  incidents 
succeed   each   other   as   matters   of  course;   the 

*Prom  the  "Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays." 
Ill 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

characters  think,  and  speak,  and  act  just  as  they 
might  do  if  left  entirely  to  themselves.  There 
is  no  set  purpose,  no  straining  at  a  point.  The 
observations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene — 
the  gusts  of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of 
music  borne  on  the  wind.  The  whole  play  is  an 
exact  transcript  of  what  might  be  supposed  to 
have  taken  place  at  the  court  of  Denmark  at  the 
remote  period  of  time  fixt  upon,  before  the  mod- 
ern refinements  in  morals  and  manners  were 
heard  of.  It  would  have  been  interesting  enough 
to  have  been  admitted  as  a  bystander  in  such  a 
scene,  at  such  a  time,  to  have  heard  and  witnessed 
something  of  what  was  going  on.  But  here  we 
are  more  than  spectators.  We  have  not  only  "the 
outward  pageants  and  the  signs  of  grief,"  but 
"we  have  that  within  which  passes  show."  Wa 
read  the  thoughts  of  the  heart,  wo  catch  the  pas- 
sions living  as  they  rise.  Other  dramatic  wi'iters 
give  us  very  fine  versions  and  paraphrases  of 
nature;  but  Shakespeare,  together  with  his  own 
comments,  gives  us  the  original  text,  that  we  may 
judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a  very  gi-eat  advan- 
tage. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  stands  quite  by  itself. 
It  is  not  a  character  marked  by  strength  of  will 
or  even  of  passion,  but  by  refinement  of  thought 
and  sentiment.  Hamlet  is  as  little  of  the  hero 
as  a  man  can  well  be;  but  he  is  a  young  and 
princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusiasm  and  quick 
sensibility — the  sport  of  circumstances,  question- 
ing with  fortune,  and  refining  on  his  own  feelings, 
and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  of  his  disposi- 
tion by  the  strangeness  of  his  situation.  He  seems 
incapable  of  deliberate  action,  and  is  only  hurried 

112 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT 


into  extremities  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  when 
he  has  no  time  to  reflect — as  iu  the  scene  where 
he  kills  Poloniiis;  and,  again,  where  he  alters  the 
letters  which  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  are 
taking  with  them  to  England,  purporting  his 
death.  At  other  times,  when  he  is  most  bound  to 
act,  he  remains  puzzled,  undecided,  and  skeptical; 
dallies  with  his  purposes  till  the  occasion  is  lost, 
and  finds  out  some  pretense  to  relapse  into  indo- 
lence and  thoughtfulness  again.  For  this  reason 
he  refuses  to  kill  the  king  when  he  is  at  his 
prayers;  and,  by  a  refinement  in  malice,  which 
is  in  truth  only  an  excuse  for  his  own  want  of 
resolution,  defers  his  revenge  to  a  more  fatal 
opportunity.     .     .     . 

The  moral  perfection  of  this  character  has  been 
called  in  question,  we  think,  by  those  who  did  not 
understand  it.  It  is  more  interesting  than  ac- 
cording to  rules;  amiable  tho  not  faultless.  The 
ethical  delineations  of  "that  noble  and  liberal 
casuist" — as  Shakespeare  has  been  well  called — 
do  not  exhibit  the  drab-colored  Quakerism  of 
morality.  His  plays  are  not  copied  either  fi'om 
"The  Whole  Duty  of  Man"  or  from  "The 
Academy  of  Compliments!"  We  confess  we  are  a 
little  shocked  at  the  want  of  refinement  in  those 
who  ai-e  shocked  at  the  want  of  refinement  in  Ham- 
let. The  neglect  of  punctilious  exactness  in  his  be- 
havior either  partakes  of  the  "license  of  the 
time,"  or  else  belongs  to  the  very  excess  of  in- 
tellectual refinement  in  the  character,  which 
makes  the  common  rules  of  life,  as  well  as  bis 
own  purposes,  sit  loose  upon  him.  He  may  be 
said  to  be  amenable  only  to  the  tribunal  of  his 
own  thoughts,  and  is  too  much  taken  up  with  the 


V— 8  113 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

airy  world  of  contemplation,  to  lay  as  much  stress 
as  he  ought  on  the  practical  consequences  of 
things.  His  habitual  principles  of  action  are  un- 
hinged and  out  of  joint  with  the  time.  His  con- 
duct to  Ophelia  is  quite  natural  in  his  circum- 
stances. It  is  that  of  assumed  severity  only.  It 
is  the  effect  of  disappointed  hope,  of  bitter 
regi'ets,  of  affection  suspended,  not  obliterated, 
by  the  distractions  of  the  scene  around  him! 
Amidst  the  natural  and  preternatural  horrors  of 
his  situation,  he  might  be  excused  in  delicacy 
from  carrying  on  a  regular  courtship.  When 
"his  father's  spirit  was  in  anus,"  it  was  not  a 
time  for  the  son  to  make  love  in.  He  could 
neither  marry  Ophelia,  nor  ^vound  her  mind  by 
explaining  the  cause  of  his  alienation,  which  he 
durst  hardly  trust  himself  to  think  of.  It  would 
Lave  taken  him  years  to  have  come  to  a  direct 
explanation  on  the  point.  In  the  harassed  state 
of  his  mind,  he  could  not  have  done  much  other- 
wise than  he  did.  His  conduct  does  not  contradict 
what  he  Days  when  he  sees  her  funeral: 

I  loved  Ophelia ;  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum. 


114 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 

Born  in  1785,  died  In  1869;  eon  of  a  wealthy  merchant; 
studied  at  Oxford  without  taking  a  degree;  settled  at  Gras- 
mere,  near  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  about  1808;  losing 
his  fortune,  sought  literary  work  in  London  in  1821;  con- 
tracted at  Oxford  the  opium  habit,  under  which  at  one  tima 
he  took  840  grains  daily;  made  his  opium  experiences  the 
basis  of  an  essay  entitled  "Confessions  of  nn  English  Opium 
Eater,"  published  in  1821;  wrote  for  many  periodicals  and 
eventually  settled  in  Edinburgh;  his  collected  works  com' 
prize   many   volumes. 


DREAMS  OF  AN  OPIUM-EATER » 

May  18. —  The  Malay  has  been  a  fearful  enemy 
for  months.  Every  night,  through  his  means,  I 
have  been  transported  into  Asiatic  scenery.  I 
know  not  whether  others  share  in  my  feelings 
on  this  point,  but  I  have  often  thought  that  if  I 
were  compelled  to  forego  England,  and  to  live  in 
China,  and  among  Chinese  manners  and  modes 
of  life  and  scenery,  I  should  go  mad.  The  causes 
of  my  horror  lie  deep,  and  some  of  them  must  be 
common  to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in  general, 
is  the  seat  of  awful  images  and  associations.  As 
the  cradle  of  the  human  race,  it  would  have  a 
dim  and  reverential  feeling  connected  with  it.  But 
there  are  other  reasons.  No  man  can  pretend 
that  the  wild,  barbarous,  and  capricious  super- 
stitions of  Afiica,  or  of  savage  tribes  elsewhere, 

*  Prom  the  "Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater." 
115 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

affect  in  the  way  that  he  is  affected  by  the  an- 
cient, monumental,  cruel,  and  elaborate  religions 
of  Hindustan,  etc.  The  mere  antiquity  of  Asiatic 
things,  of  their  institutions,  history,  modes  of 
faith,  etc.,  is  so  impressive  that  to  me  the  vast 
age  of  the  race  and  name  overpowers  the  sense 
of  youth  in  the  individual.  A  young  Chinese 
seems  to  me  an  antediluvian  man  renewed.  Even 
Englishmen,  tho  not  bred  in  any  knowledge  of 
such  institutions,  can  not  but  shudder  at  the 
mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that  have  flowed  apart, 
and  refused  to  mix,  through  such  immemorial 
tracts  of  time;  nor  can  any  man  fail  to  be  awed 
by  the  names  of  the  Ganges  or  the  Euphrates. 
It  contributes  much  to  these  feelings,  that 
southern  Asia  is,  and  has  been  for  thousands  of 
years,  the  part  of  the  earth  most  swarming  with 
human  life;  the  great  ofpcina  gentium.  Man  is 
a  weed  in  those  regions.  The  vast  empires,  also, 
into  which  the  enormous  population  of  Asia  has 
always  been  cast,  give  a  further  sublimity  to  the 
feelings  associated  with  all  Oriental  names  or 
images.  In  China,  over  and  above  what  it  has 
in  common  with  the  rest  of  southern  Asia,  I 
am  terrified  by  the  modes  of  life,  by  the  manners, 
and  the  barrier  of  utter  abhorrence  and  want  of 
sympathy  placed  between  us  by  feelings  deeper 
than  I  can  analyze.  I  could  sooner  live  with 
lunatics  or  brute  animals.  All  this,  and  much 
more  than  I  can  say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the 
reader  must  enter  into  before  he  can  comprehend 
the  unimaginable  horror  which  these  dreams  of 
Oriental  imageiy  and  mythological  tortures  im- 
prest upon  me.  Under  the  connecting  feeling 
of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights  I  brought 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts,  reptiles,  all 
trees  and  plants,  usages  and  appearances,  that 
are  to  be  found  in  all  tropical  regions,  and  as- 
sembled them  together  in  China  or  Hindustan. 
From  kindred  feelings  I  soon  brought  Egypt  and 
all  her  gods  under  the  same  law.  I  was  stared  at, 
hooted  at,  grinned  at,  chattered  at,  by  monkeys, 
by  pan-akeets,  by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pagodas, 
and  was  fixt  for  centuries  at  the  summit,  or  in 
secret  rooms;  I  was  the  idol;  I  was  the  priest;  I 
was  worshiped;  I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled  from 
the  wrath  of  Brahma,  through  all  the  forests  of 
Asia;  Vishnu  hated  me;  Seeva  laid  wait  for  me. 
I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and  Osiris ;  I  had  done 
a  deed,  they  said,  which  the  ibis  and  the  crocodile 
trembled  at.  I  was  buried  for  a  thousand  years, 
in  stone  coffins,  with  mummies  and  sphinxes,  in 
narrow  chambers,  at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyra- 
mids, I  was  kissed,  with  cancerous  kisses,  by 
crocodiles,  and  was  laid,  confounded  with  all 
unutterable  abortions,  amongst  reeds  and  Nilotic 
mud. 

Some  slight  abstraction  I  thus  attempt  of  my 
Oriental  dreams,  Avhich  filled  me  always  with  such 
amazement  at  the  monstrous  scenery,  that  horror 
seemed  absorbed  for  a  while  in  sheer  astonish- 
ment. Sooner  or  later  came  a  reflux  of  feeling 
that  swallowed  up  the  astonishment,  and  left  me, 
not  so  much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomina- 
tion of  what  I  saw.  Over  every  form,  and  threat, 
and  punishment,  and  dim  sightless  incarceration, 
brooded  a  killing  sense  of  eternity  and  infinity. 
Into  these  dreams  only  it  was,  with  one  or  two 
slight  exceptions,  that  any  circumstances  of 
physical  horror  entered.     All  before  had  been 


117 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

moral  and  spiritual  terrors.  But  here  the  main 
agents  were  ugly  birds,  or  snakes,  or  crocodiles, 
especially  the  last.  The  curst  crocodile  became 
to  me  the  object  of  more  horror  than  all  the 
rest.  I  was  compelled  to  live  with  him,  and  (as 
was  always  the  case  in  my  dreams)  for  centuries. 
Sometimes  I  escaped,  and  found  myself  in 
Chinese  houses.  All  the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas, 
etc.,  soon  became  instinct  with  life;  the  abominable 
head  of  the  crocodile,  and  his  leering  eyes,  looked 
out  at  me,  multiplied  into  ten  thousand  repe- 
titions; and  I  stood  loathing  and  fascinated.  So 
often  did  this  hideous  reptile  haunt  my  dreams, 
that  many  times  the  very  same  dream  was  broken 
up  in  the  very  same  way.  I  heard  gentle  voices 
speaking  to  me  (I  hear  everything  when  I  am 
sleeping),  and  instantly  I  awake;  it  was  broad 
noon,  and  my  children  were  standing,  hand  in 
hand,  at  my  bedside,  come  to  show  me  their 
colored  shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see 
them  drest  for  going  out.  No  expeiience  was  so 
awful  to  me,  and  at  the  same  time  so  pathetic, 
as  this  abrupt  translation  from  the  darkness  of 
the  infinite  to  the  gaudy  summer  air  of  highest 
noon,  and  from  the  unutterable  abortions  of  mis- 
created gigantic  vermin  to  the  sight  of  infancy 
and  innocent  human  natures. 

June  1819. — I  have  had  occasion  to  remark,  at 
various  periods  of  my  life,  that  the  deaths  of 
those  whom  we  love,  and,  indeed,  the  contempla- 
tion of  death  generally,  is  {ceteris  paribus) 
more  affecting  in  summer  than  in  any  other  sea- 
son of  the  year.  And  the  reasons  are  these  three, 
I  think:  first,  that  the  visible  heavens  in  summer 
appear  far  higher,  more  distant,  and  (if  such  a 

118 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


solecism  may  be  excused)  mjove  infijiite;  the 
clouds  by  which  chiefly  the  eye  expounds  the  dis- 
tance of  the  blue  pavilion  stretched  ever  our 
heads  are  in  summer  more  voluminous,  more 
massed,  and  are  accumulated  in  far  gi'ander  and 
more  towering  piles;  secondly,  the  light  and  the 
appearances  of  the  declining  and  the  setting  sun 
are  much  more  fitted  to  be  types  and  characters 
of  the  infinite;  and  thirdly  (which  is  the  main 
reason),  the  exuberant  and  riotous  prodigality 
of  life  naturally  forces  the  mind  more  powerfully 
upon  the  antagonist  thought  of  death,  and  the 
wintry  sterility  of  the  grave.  For  it  may  be  ob- 
served generally,  that  wherever  two  thoughts 
stand  related  to  each  other  by  a  law  of  antago- 
nism, and  exist,  as  it  were  by  mutual  repulsion, 
they  are  apt  to  suggest  each  other.  On  these  ac- 
counts it  is  that  I  find  it  impossible  to  banish 
the  thought  of  death  when  I  am  walking  alone 
in  the  endless  days  of  summer;  and  any  particular 
death,  if  not  actually  more  affecting,  at  least 
haunts  my  mind  more  obstinately  and  besiegingly 
in  that  season.  Perhaps  this  cause,  and  a  slight 
incident  which  I  omit,  might  have  been  the  im- 
mediate occasions  of  the  following  dream,  to 
which,  however,  a  predisposition  must  alv^'ays 
have  existed  in  my  mind;  but,  having  been  once 
roused,  it  never  left  me,  and  split  into  a  thou- 
sand fantastic  variations,  which  often  suddenly 
reeombined,  locked  back  into  a  startling  unity, 
and  restored  the  original  dream. 

I  thought  that  it  was  a  Sunday  morning  in  May ; 
that  it  was  Easter  Sunday,  and  as  yet  very  early 
in  the  morning.  I  was  standing,  as  it  seemed  to 
me,  at  the  door  of  my  own  cottage.    Right  befor« 

lid 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

me  lay  the  very  scene  which  could  really  be  com- 
manded from  that  situation,  but  exalted,  as  was 
usual,  and  solemnized  by  the  power  of  dreams. 
There  were  the  same  mountains,  and  the  same 
lovely  valley  at  their  feet;  but  the  mountains 
were  raised  to  more  than  Alpine  height,  and  there 
was  interspace  far  larger  between  them  of  savan- 
nahs and  forest  lawns;  the  hedges  were  rich  with 
white  roses;  and  no  living  creature  was  to  be 
seen,  excepting  that  in  the  green  churchyard 
there  were  cattle  tranquilly  reposing  upon  the 
verdant  graves,  and  particularly  round  about  the 
grave  of  a  child  whom  I  had  once  tenderly  loved, 
just  as  I  had  really  beheld  them,  a  little  before 
sunrise,  in  the  same  summer  when  that  child 
died,  I  gazed  upon  the  w^ell-known  scene,  and 
I  said  to  myself:  "It  yet  wants  much  of  sunrise; 
and  it  is  Easter  Sunday;  and  that  is  the  day  on 
which  they  celebrate  the  first-fruits  of  Resurrec- 
tion. I  will  walk  abroad;  old  giiefs  shall  be 
forgotten  to-day:  for  the  air  is  cool  and  still,  and 
the  hills  are  high,  and  stretch  away  to  heaven; 
and  the  churchyard  is  as  verdant  as  the  forest 
lawns,  and  the  forest  lawns  are  as  quiet  as  the 
churchyard;  and  with  the  dew  I  can  wash  the 
fever  from  my  forehead;  and  then  I  shall  be  un- 
happy no  longer."  I  turned,  as  if  to  open  my 
garden  gate,  and  immediately  I  saw  upon  the 
left  a  scene  far  different ;  but  which  yet  the  power 
of  dreams  had  reconciled  into  harmony.  The 
scene  was  an  Oriental  one;  and  there  also  it  was 
Easter  Sunday,  and  very  early  in  the  morning. 
And  at  a  vast  distance  were  visible,  as  a  stain 
upon  the  horizon,  the  domes  and  cupolas  of  a 
great  city — an  image  or  faint  abstraction,  cau^t 

120 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


perhaps  in  childhood  from  some  picture  of  Jeru- 
salem. And  not  a  bow-shot  from  me,  upon  a 
stone,  shaded  by  Judean  palms,  there  sat  a 
woman;  and  I  looked,  and  it  was — Ann!  She 
fixt  her  eyes  upon  me  earnestly;  and  I  said  to  her 
at  length,  ''So,  then,  I  have  found  you  at  last/* 
I  waited;  but  she  answered  me  not  a  word.  Her 
face  was  the  same  as  when  I  saw  it  last;  the 
same,  and  yet  again  how  different  I  Seventeen  yeai-s 
ago,  when  the  lamp-light  of  mighty  London  fell 
upon  her  face,  as  for  the  last  time  I  kissed  her 
lips  (lips,  Ann,  that  to  me  were  not  polluted  1), 
her  eyes  were  streaming  with  tears.  The  teara 
were  now  no  longer  seen.  Sometimes  she  seemed 
altered;  yet  again  sometimes  not  altered;  and 
hardly  older.  Her  looks  were  tranquil,  but  with 
unusual  solemnity  of  expression,  and  I  now  gazed 
upon  her  with  some  awe.  Suddenly  her  counte- 
nance grew  dim;  and,  turning  to  the  mountains, 
I  perceived  vapors  rolling  between  us;  in  a  mo- 
ment all  had  vanished;  thick  darkness  came  on; 
and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  was  far  away 
from  mountains,  and  by  lamp-light  in  London, 
walking  again  with  Ann — just  as  we  had  walked 
when  both  children,  eighteen  years  before,  along 
the  endless  terraces  at  Oxford  Street. 

Then  suddenly  would  come  a  dream  of  far 
different  character — a  tumultuous  dream — com- 
mencing with  a  music  such  as  now  I  often  heard 
in  sleep — music  of  preparation  and  of  awaken- 
ing suspense.  The  undulations  of  fast-gathering 
tumults  were  like  the  opening  of  the  Coronation 
Anthem;  and  like  that,  gave  the  feeling  of  a 
multitudinous  movement,  of  infinite  cavalcades 
filing  off,  and  the  tread  of  innumerable  armiea. 


121 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

The  morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day — a  day 
of  crisis  and  an  ultimate  hope  for  human  nature, 
then  suffering  mysterious  eclipse,  and  laboring 
in  some  dread  extremity.  Somewhere,  but  I  knew 
not  where — somehow,  but  I  knew  not  how — by 
some  beings,  but  I  knew  not  by  whom — a  battle, 
a  strife,  an  agony,  was  traveling  through  all  its 
stages — was  evolving  itself,  like  the  catastrophe 
of  some  mighty  drama,  with  which  my  sympathy 
was  the  more  insupportable,  from  deepening  con- 
fusion as  to  its  local  scene,  its  cause,  its  nature, 
and  its  undecipherable  issue.  I  (as  is  usual  in 
dreams,  where  of  necessity,  we  make  ourselves 
central  to  every  movement)  had  the  power,  and 
3'et  had  not  the  power,  to  decide  it.  I  had  the 
power,  if  I  could  raise  myself  to  will  it;  and  yet 
again  had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of  twenty 
Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of  in- 
expiable guilt.  "Deeper  than  ever  plummet 
sounded,"  I  lay  inactive.  Then,  like  a  chorus, 
the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater  interest  was 
at  stake,  some  mightier  cause,  than  ever  yet  the 
sword  had  pleaded,  or  trumpet  had  proclaimed. 
Then  came  sudden  alarms;  hurryings  to  and  fro, 
trepidations  of  innumerable  fugitives;  I  knew 
not  whether  from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad; 
darkness  and  lights;  tempest  and  human  faces; 
and  at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost, 
female  forms,  and  the  features  that  were  worth 
all  the  world  to  me:  and  but  a  moment  allowed — 
and  clasped  hands,  with  heartbreaking  partings, 
and  then — everlasting  farewells!  and,  with  a  sigh 
such  as  the  caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestu- 
ous mother  uttered  the  abhorred  name  of  Death, 
the    sound   was   reverberated — everlasting   fare- 

122 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


wells!    And  again,  and  yet  again  reverberated — 
everlasting  farewells! 

And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud,  "I 
will  sleep  no  more  1 ' ' 


n 

JOAN  OF  ARC* 

What  is  to  be  thought  of  herf  What  is  to  be 
thought  of  the  poor  shepherd-girl  from  the  hills 
and  forests  of  Lorraine,  that — like  the  Hebrew 
shepherd-boy  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  Judea 
— rose  suddenly  out  of  the  quiet,  out  of  the 
safety,  out  of  the  religious  inspiration,  rooted 
in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a  station  in 
the  van  of  armies,  and  to  the  more  perilous 
station  at  the  right  hand  of  kings?  The 
Hebrew  boy  inaugurated  his  patriotic  mission 
by  an  act,  by  a  victorious  act,  such  as  no  man 
could  deny.  But  so  did  the  girl  of  Lorraine,  if 
we  read  her  story  as  it  was  read  by  those  who 
Baw  her  nearest.  Adverse  armies  bore  witness  to 
the  boy  as  no  pretender:  but  so  did  they  to  the 
gentle  girl.  Judged  by  the  voices  of  all  who  saw 
them  from  a  station  of  good  icill,  both  were  found 
true  and  loyal  to  any  promises  involved  in  their 
first  acts.  Enemies  it  was  that  made  the  differ- 
ence between  their  subsequent  fortunes.  The 
boy  rose — to  a  splendor  and  a  noonday  prosperity 

•Prom  the  volume  entitled  "Biographical  and  Historical 
Eseays." 

123 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

both  personal  and  public,  that  rang  through  the 
records  of  his  people,  and  became  a  by-word 
amongst  his  posterity  for  a  thousand  years, 
until  the  scepter  wa.  departing  from  Judah.  The 
poor  forsaken  girl,  on  the  contrary,  drank  not 
herself  from  that  cup  of  rest  Vviiich  she  had  se- 
cured for  France.  She  never  sang  together  with 
them  the  songs  that  rose  in  her  native  Domremy, 
as  echoes  to  the  departing  step  of  invaders.  She 
mingled  not  in  the  festal  dances  at  Vaucouleurs 
which  celebrated  in  rapture  the  redemption  of 
France.  No!  for  her  voice  was  then  silent.  No! 
for  her  feet  were  dust.  Pure,  innocent,  noble- 
hearted  girl!  whom,  from  earliest  youth,  ever  I 
believed  in  as  full  of  truth  and  self-sacrifice,  this 
was  amongst  the  strongest  pledges  for  thy  side, 
that  never  once — no,  not  for  a  moment  of  weak- 
ness— didst  thou  revel  in  the  vision  of  coronets 
and  honors  from  man.  Coronets  for  thee!  Oh 
no!  Honors,  if  they  come  when  all  is  over,  are 
for  those  that  share  thy  blood.  Daughter  of 
Domremy,  when  the  gratitude  of  thy  king  shall 
awaken,  thou  wilt  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the 
dead.  Call  her.  King  of  France,  but  she  will 
not  hear  thee!  Cite  her  by  thy  apparitors  to 
come  and  receive  a  robe  of  honor,  but  she  will 
be  foi;nd  en  contumace. 

When  the  thunders  of  universal  France,  as 
even  yet  may  happen,  shall  proclaim  the  grandeur 
of  the  poor  shepherd-girl  that  gave  up  all  for 
her  country — thy  ear,  young  shepherd-girl,  will 
have  been  deaf  for  five  centuries.  To  suffer  and 
to  do,  that  was  thy  portion  in  this  life;  to  do-— 
never  for  thyself,  always  for  others;  to  suffer- 
never  in  the  persons  of  generous  champions,  al- 

124 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


ways  in  thy  own:  that  was  thy  destiny;  and 
not  for  a  moment  was  it  hidden  from  thyself. 
"Life,"  thou  saidst,  "is  short,  and  the  sleep 
■which  is  in  the  grave  is  long.  Let  me  use  that 
life,  so  transitory,  for  the  glory  of  those  heavenly 
dreams  destined  to  comfort  the  sleep  which  is 
BO  long."  This  poor  creature — pure  from  every 
suspicion  of  even  a  visionary  self-interest,  even 
as  she  was  pure  in  senses  more  obvious — never 
once  did  this  holy  child,  as  regarded  herself,  relax 
from  her  belief  in  the  darkness  that  was  trav- 
eling to  meet  her.  She  might  not  prefigure  the 
very  manner  of  her  death ;  she  saw  not  in  vision, 
perhaps,  the  aerial  altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold, 
the  spectators  without  end  on  every  road  pouring 
into  Rouen  as  to  a  coronation,  the  surging  smoke, 
the  volleying  flames,  the  hostile  faces  all  around, 
the  pitying  eye  that  lurked  but  here  and  there 
until  nature  and  imperishable  truth  broke  loose 
from  artificial  restraints;  these  might  not  be 
apparent  through  the  mists  of  the  hurrying  fu- 
ture. But  the  voice  that  called  her  to  death, 
that  she  heard  forever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those 
days,  and  great  was  he  that  sat  upon  it;  but 
well  Joanna  knew  that  not  the  throne,  nor  he 
that  sat  upon  it,  was  for  her;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  she  was  for  them;  not  she  by  them, 
but  they  by  her,  should  rise  from  the  dust. 
Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France,  and  for  cen- 
turies had  the  privilege  to  spread  their  beauty 
over  land  and  sea,  until,  in  another  century,  the 
wrath  of  God  and  man  combined  to  wither  them; 
but  well  Joanna  knew,  early  at  Domremy  she  had 
read  that  bitter  truth,  that  the  lilies  of  France  would 


186 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

decorate  no  garland  for  her.     Flower  nor  bud, 
bell  nor  blossom,  would  ever  bloom  for  her. 

On  the  Wednesday  after  Trinity  Sunday  in 
1431,  being  then  about  nineteen  years  of  age, 
the  Maid  of  Arc  underwent  her  martyrdom.  She 
was  conducted  befoi-e  midday,  guarded  by  eight 
hundred  spearmen,  to  a  platform  of  prodigious 
height,  constructed  of  wood  billets  supported  by 
hollow  spaces  in  every  direction,  for  the  creation 
of  air-currents.  **The  pile  struck  terror,"  saj'S 
M.  Michelet,  ''by  its  height."  .  .  .  There 
would  be  a  certainty  of  calumny  arising  against 
her — some  people  would  impute  to  her  a  willing- 
ness to  recant.  No  innocence  could  escape  that. 
Now,  had  she  really  testified  this  willingness  on 
the  scaffold,  it  would  have  argued  nothing  at  all 
but  the  weakness  of  a  genial  nature  shrinking  from 
the  instant  approach  of  torment.  And  those  will 
often  pity  that  weakness  most,  who  in  their  own 
persons  would  yield  to  it  least.  Meantime  there 
never  was  a  calumny  uttered  that  drew  less  sup- 
port from  the  recorded  circumstances.  It  rests 
upon  no  positive  testimonj',  and  it  has  a  weight 
of  conti-adicting  testimony  to  stem.  .  .  .  What 
else  but  her  meek,  saintly  demeanor  won,  fi'om 
the  enemies  that  till  now  had  believed  her  a 
witch,  tears  of  rapturous  admiration?  ''Ten 
thousand  men,"  says  M.  Michelet  himself,  "ten 
thousand  men  wept;  and  of  these  ten  thousand 
the  majority  were  political  enemies  knitted  to- 
gether by  cords  of  superstition.  What  else  was 
it  but  her  constancy,  united  with  her  angelic 
gentleness,  that  drove  the  fanatic  English  soldier 
— who  had  sworn  to  throw  a  fagot  on  her  scaf- 
fold as  his  tribute  of  abhorrence,  that  did  so, 

126 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


that  fulfilled  his  vow — suddenly  to  turn  away 
a  penitent  for  life,  saying  everywhere  that  he 
had  seen  a  dove  rising  upon  wings  to  heaven 
from  the  ashes  where  she  had  stood?  What  else 
drove  the  executioner  to  kneel  at  every  shrine 
for  pardon  to  his  share  in  the  tragedy?  And  if 
all  this  were  insufficient,  then  I  cite  the  closing 
act  of  her  life  as  valid  on  her  behalf,  were  all 
other  testimonies  against  her.  The  executioner 
had  been  directed  to  apply  his  torch  from  below. 
He  did  so.  The  fiery  smoke  rose  up  in  billowy 
columns.  A  Dominican  monk  was  then  standing 
almost  at  her  side.  Wrapt  up  in  his  sublime 
office,  he  saw  not  the  danger,  but  still  persisted 
in  his  prayers.  Even  then  when  the  last  enemy 
was  racing  up  the  fiery  stairs  to  seize  her,  even 
at  that  moment  did  this  noblest  of  girls  think 
only  for  him,  the  one  friend  that  would  not 
forsake  her,  and  not  for  herself;  bidding  him 
with  her  last  breath  to  care  for  his  own  presei-va- 
tion,  but  to  leave  her  to  God.  That  girl,  whose 
latest  breath  ascended  in  this  sublime  expression 
of  self-oblivion,  did  not  utter  the  word  recant 
either  with  her  lips  or  in  her  heart.  No,  she 
did  not,  tho  one  should  rise  from  the  dead  to 
swear  it. 


027 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 


m 

CHARLES  LAMB* 

It  sounds  paradoxical,  but  is  not  so  in  a  bad 
sense,  to  say  that  in  every  literature  of  large 
compass  some  authors  will  be  found  to  rest  much 
of  the  interest  Avhich  surrounds  them  on  their 
essential  non-popularity.  They  are  good  for  the 
very  reason  that  they  are  not  in  conformity  to 
the  current  taste.  They  interest  because  to  the 
world  they  are  not  interesting.  They  attract  by 
means  of  their  repulsion.  Not  as  tho  it  could 
separately  furnish  a  reason  for  loving  a  book, 
that  the  majority  of  men  had  found  it  repulsive. 
Prima  facie,  it  must  suggest  some  presumption 
against  a  book  that  it  has  failed  to  gain  public 
attention.  To  have  roused  hostility  indeed,  to 
have  kindled  a  feud  against  its  own  principles 
or  its  temper,  may  happen  to  be  a  good  sign. 
That  argues  power.  Hatred  may  be  promising. 
The  deepest  revolutions  of  minds  sometimes  begin 
in  hatred.  But  simply  to  have  left  a  reader 
unimprest  is  in  itself  a  neutral  result,  from  which 
the  inference  is  doubtful.  Yet  even  that,  even 
simple  failure  to  impress,  may  happen  at  times 
to  be  a  result  from  positive  powers  in  a  writer, 
from  special  originalities  such  as  rarely  reflect 
themselves  in  the  mirror  of  the  ordinary  under- 
standing. It  seems  little  to  be  perceived,  how 
much  the  great  Scriptural  idea  of  the  worldly 

•  From  the  volume  entitled  "Literary  Reminiscences." 
128 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


and  the  unvvoddly  is  fouud  to  emerge  in  lit- 
erature as  well  as  in  life. 

In  reality,  the  very  same  combinations  of 
moral  qualities,  infinitely  varied,  which  compose 
the  harsh  physiognomy  of  what  we  call  worldli- 
ness  in  the  living  groups  of  life,  must  unavoidably 
present  themselves  in  books.  A  library  divides 
into  sections  of  worldly  and  unworldly,  even  as 
a  crowd  of  men  divides  into  that  same  majority 
and  minority.  The  world  has  an  instinct  for 
recognizing  its  own,  and  recoils  from  certain 
qualities  when  exemplilied  in  books  with  the 
same  disgust  or  defective  sympathy  as  would 
have  governed  it  in  real  life.  From  qualities, 
for  instance,  of  childlike  simplicity,  of  shy  pro- 
fundity, or  of  inspired  self-communion,  the  world 
does  and  must  turn  away  its  face  toward  grosser, 
bolder,  more  determined,  or  more  intelligible 
expressions  of  character  and  intellect  j  and  not 
otherwise  in  literature,  nor  at  all  less  in  litera- 
ture, than  it  does  in  the  realities  of  life. 

Charles  Lamb,  if  any  ever  was,  is  amongst 
the  class  here  contemplated;  he,  if  any  ever  has, 
ranks  amongst  writers  whose  works  are  destined 
to  be  forever  unpopular,  and  yet  forever  inter- 
esting; interesting  moreover  by  means  of  those 
very  qualities  which  guarantee  their  non-popu- 
larity. The  same  qualities  which  will  be  found 
forbidding  to  the  worldly  and  the  thoughtless, 
which  will  be  found  insipid  to  many  even  amoLgst 
robust  and  powerful  minds,  are  exactly  those 
which  will  continue  to  command  a  select  audience 
in  every  generation.  The  prcse  essays,  under 
the  signature  oi  "Elia,"  form  the  most  delight- 
ful section  amongst  Lamb's  works.  They  traverec 


V— 9  129 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

a  peculiar  field  of  observation,  sequestered  from 
general  interest;  and  they  are  composed  in  a 
spirit  too  delicate  and  unobtrusive  to  catch  the 
ear  of  the  noisy  crowd,  clamoring  for  strong 
sensations.  But  this  retiring  delicacy  itself,  the 
pensiveness  checkered  by  gleams  of  the  fanciful, 
and  the  humor  that  is  touched  with  cross-lights 
of  pathos,  together  with  the  picturesque  quaint- 
ness  of  the  objects  casually  described,  whether 
men,  or  things,  or  usages;  and  in  the  rear  of 
all  this,  the  constant  recurrence  to  ancient  recol- 
lections and  to  decaying  forms  of  household  life, 
as  things  retiring  before  the  tumult  of  new  and 
revolutionary  generations;  these  traits  in  com- 
bination communicate  to  the  papers  a  grace  and 
strength  of  originality  which  nothing  in  any  lit- 
erature approaches,  whether  for  degree  or  kind  of 
excellence,  except  the  most  felicitous  papers  of 
Addison,  such  as  those  on  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
and  some  others  in  the  same  vein  of  comr>osi- 
tion.  They  resemble  Addison's  papers  also  in 
the  diction,  which  is  natural  and  idiomatic  even 
to  carelessness.  They  are  equally  faithful  to  the 
truth  of  nature:  and  in  this  only  they  differ  re- 
markably— that  the  sketches  of  Elia  reflect  the 
stamp  and  impress  of  the  writer's  own  character, 
whereas  in  all  those  of  Addison  the  personal 
peculiarities  of  the  delineator  (tho  known  to  the 
reader  from  the  beginning  through  the  account 
of  the  club)  are  nearly  quiescent.  Now  and  then 
they  are  recalled  into  a  momentary  notice,  but 
they  do  not  act,  or  at  all  modify  his  pictures  of 
Sir  Roger  or  Will  Wimble.  They  are  amiably 
eccentric;  but  the  Spectator  in  describing  them, 
takes  the  station  of  an  ordinary  observer. 

180 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


Everywhere,  indeed,  in  the  writings  of  Lamb, 
and  not  merely  in  his  **Elia,"  the  character  of 
the  writer  cooperates  in  an  undercurrent  to  make 
the  effect  of  the  thing  written.  To  understand  in 
the  fullest  sense  either  the  gaiety  or  the  tenderness 
of  a  particular  passage,  you  must  have  some 
insight  into  the  peculiar  bias  of  the  writer's 
mind,  whether  native  and  original,  or  imprest 
gradually  by  the  accidents  of  situation;  whether 
simply  developed  out  of  predispositions  by  the 
action  of  life,  or  violently  scorched  into  the  con- 
stitution by  some  fierce  fever  of  calamity.  There 
is  in  modern  literature  a  whole  class  of  writers, 
tho  not  a  lai'ge  one,  standing  within  the  same 
category;  some  marked  originality  of  character 
in  the  writer  becomes  a  coefficient  with  what  he 
says  to  a  common  result;  you  must  sympathize 
with  this  personality  in  the  author  before  you 
can  appreciate  the  most  significant  parts  of  his 
riews.  In  most  books  the  writer  figures  as  a 
mere  abstraction,  without  sex  or  age  or  local 
station,  whom  the  reader  banishes  from  his 
thoughts.  What  is  written  seems  to  proceed 
from  a  blank  intellect,  not  from  a  man  clothed 
•with  fleshly  peculiarities  and  differences.  These 
peculiarities  and  differences  neither  do,  nor  (gen- 
erally speaking)  could  intermingle  with  the  tex- 
ture of  the  thoughts  so  as  to  modify  their  force 
or  their  direction.  In  such  books — and  they  form 
the  vast  majority — there  is  not  hi '^g  to  be  found 
or  to  be  looked  for  beyond  the  direct  objective. 
{Sit  venia  oerbo!) 

But  in  a  small  section  of  books,  the  objective 
in  the  thought  becomes  confluent  with  the  sub- 
jective in  the  thinker — the  two  forces  unite  for 

131 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 
*  — ■^■^—  ■ 

a  joint  product;  and  fully  to  enjoy  the  product, 
or  fully  to  apprehend  either  element,  both  must 
be  known.  It  is  singular  and  worth  inquiring 
into,  for  the  reason  that  the  Greek  and  Roman 
literature  had  no  such  books.  Timon  of  Athens, 
or  Diogenes,  one  may  conceive  qualified  for  this 
mode  of  authorship,  had  journalism  existed  to 
rouse  them  in  those  days;  their  "articles"  would 
no  doubt  have  been  feai'fully  caustic.  But  as 
they  failed  to  produce  anything,  and  Lueian  in 
an  after  age  is  scarcely  characteristic  enough 
for  the  purpose,  perhaps  we  may  pronounce 
Rabelais  and  Montaigne  tlie  earliest  of  writers 
in  the  class  described.  In  the  century  following 
theirs  came  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  and  immediately 
after  him  La  Fontaine.  Then  came  Swift,  Sterne, 
with  others  less  distinguished;  in  Germany,  Hip- 
pel  the  friend  of  Kant,  Harmann  the  obscure,  and 
the  greatest  of  the  whole  body — Jean  Paul  Fried- 
rich  Richter.  In  him,  from  the  strength  and  de- 
terminateness  of  his  nature  as  well  as  from  the 
great  extent  of  his  writing,  the  philosophy  of 
this  interaction  between  the  author  as  a  human 
agency  and  his  theme  as  an  intellectual  reagency 
might  best  be  studied.  From  him  might  be  de- 
rived the  largest  number  of  cases,  illustrating 
boldly  this  absoi'ption  of  the  universal  into  the 
concrete — of  the  pure  intellect  into  the  human 
nature  of  the  author.  But  nowhere  could  illus- 
trations be  found  more  interesting — shy,  delicate, 
evanescent — shy  as  lightning,  delicate  and  eva- 
nescent as  the  colored  pencilings  on  a  frosty 
night  from  the  Northern  Lights,  than  in  the 
better  parts  of  Lamb. 
To  appreciate  Lamb,  therefore,  it  is  requisite 

132 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY 


that  his  character  and  temperament  should  be 
understood  in  their  coyest  and  most  wayward 
features.  A  capital  defect  it  would  be  if  these 
could  not  be  gathered  silently  from  Lamb's  works 
themselves.  It  would  be  a  fatal  mode  of  de- 
pendency upon  an  alien  and  separable  accident  if 
they  needed  an  external  commentary.  But  they 
do  not.  The  syllables  lurk  up  and  down  the 
Avritings  of  Lamb,  which  decipher  his  eccentric 
nature.  His  character  lies  there  dispersed  in 
anagram;  and  to  any  attentive  reader  the  re- 
gathering  and  restoration  of  the  total  word  from 
its  scattered  parts  is  inevitable  without  an  effort. 
Still  it  is  always  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  a 
result,  to  know  also  its  why  and  how;  and  in  so 
far  as  every  character  is  likely  to  be  modified 
by  the  particular  experience,  sad  or  joyous, 
through  which  the  life  has  traveled,  it  is  a  good 
contribution  toward  the  knowledge  of  that  re- 
sulting character  as  a  whole  to  have  a  sketch 
of  that  particular  experience.  What  trials  did 
it  impose?  ^Vllat  energies  did  it  task"?  What 
temptations  did  it  unfold?  These  calls  upon  the 
moral  powers,  which  in  music  so  stormy  many 
a  life  is  doomed  to  hear — how  were  they  faced  f 
The  character  in  a  capital  degree  molds  often- 
times the  life,  but  the  life  always  in  a  subor- 
dinate degree  molds  the  character.  And  the 
character  being  in  this  case  of  Lamb  so  much  of 
n  key  to  the  vritings,  it  becomes  important  that 
the  life  should  be  traced,  however  briefly,  as  a 
key  to  the  character. 


133 


LORD   BYRON 

Born  In  1788,  died  in  1824;  inlierited  the  title  and  the 
estate  of  Newstead  Abbey  in  1798;  educated  at  Hairow 
and  Cambridge;  published  "Hours  of  Idleness"  in  1807; 
traveled  on  the  Continent  in  1809-11;  published  the  first 
two  cantos  of  "Childe  Harold"  in  1812;  married  Miss  Mil- 
banke  in  1815;  separated  from  her  in  1816,  and  abandoned 
England;  met  the  Countess  Guiccioli  at  Venice  in  1819;  lived 
subsequently  at  Ravenna,  Pisa  and  Genoa;  joined  the  Greek 
insurgents  in  1823 ;  died  of  a  fever  at  Missolonghi,  Greece. 


OF  HIS  MOTHER'S  TREATMENT  OF 
HIM* 

I  THOUGHT,  my  dear  Augusta,  that  your  opinion 
of  my  meek  mama  would  coincide  with  mine;  her 
temper  is  so  variable,  and,  when  inflamed,  so 
furious,  that  I  dread  our  meeting;  not  but  I  dare 
say  that  I  am  troublesome  enough,  but  I  always 
endeavor  to  be  as  dutiful  as  possible.     She  is 

*  Letter  to  his  half-sister,  Augusta,  dated  "Harrow,  Satur- 
daj,  11th  November,  1804."  Byron  was  then  In  his  seven- 
te€  ith  year.  Byron's  sister,  seven  days  after  receiving  this 
let:er,  wrote  to  Hanson,  his  solicitor,  a  letter  which  re- 
Bulted  in  Byron's  spending  his  Christmas  holidays  with 
Hanson  instead  of  with  his  mother.  Augusta  told  Hanson 
she  hed  talked  with  Lord  Carlisle,  a  relative  of  Byron's,  and 
by  his  advice  had  requested  Hanson  to  receive  her  brother 
88  his  guest.  Of  the  trouble  between  her  brother  and  his 
mother  she  said :  "As  they  can  not  agree,  they  had  better 
t>e  separated,  for  such  eternal  scenes  of  wrangling  are 
enough  to  spoil  the  very  best  t€mper  and  disposition  in 
the  universe. 

134 


LORD  BYRON 


very  strenuous,  and  so  tormenting  in  her  en- 
treaties and  commands,  with  regard  to  my  rec- 
onciliation with  that  detestable  Lord  0.  that  I 
suppose  she  has  a  penchant  for  his  Lordship; 
but  I  am  confident  that  he  does  not  return  it,  for 
he  rather  dislikes  her  than  otherwise,  at  least 
as  far  as  I  can  judge.  But  she  has  an  excellent 
opinion  of  her  personal  attractions,  sinks  her  age 
a  good  six  years,  avers  that  Avhen  I  was  born  she 
was  only  eighteen,  when  you,  my  dear  sister, 
know  as  w'ell  as  I  know  that  she  was  of  age 
when  she  married  my  father,  and  that  I  was  not 
born  for  three  years  afterward.  But  vanity  is 
the  weakness  of  your  sex — and  these  are  mere 
foibles  that  I  have  related  to  you,  and,  provided 
she  never  molested  me  I  should  look  upon  them 
as  foibles  very  excusable  in  a  woman.  But  I 
am  now  coming  to  what  must  shock  you  as  well 
as  it  does  me.  When  she  has  occasion  to  lecture 
me  (not  very  seldom  you  will  think  no  doubt) 
she  does  not  do  it  in  a  manner  that  commands 
respect  or  in  an  impressive  style.  Nol  did  she 
do  that  I  should  amend  my  faults  with  pleasure, 
and  dread  to  offend  a  kind  tho  just  mother.  But 
she  flies  into  a  fit  of  frenzy,  upbraids  me  as  if 
I  was  the  most  undutiful  wretch  in  existence, 
rakes  up  the  ashes  of  my  father,  abuses  him, 
says  I  shall  be  a  true  Byrrone,  which  is  the  worst 
epithet  she  could  invent. 

Am  I  to  call  this  woman  mother?  Because  by 
nature's  law  she  has  authority  over  me,  am  I 
to  be  trampled  upon  in  this  manner?  Am  1  to 
be  goaded  with  insult,  loaded  with  obloquy,  and 
suffer  my  feelings  to  be  outraged  on  the  most 
trivial  occasions?     I  owe  her  respect  as  a  son, 

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THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

but  I  renounce  her  as  a  friend.  What  an  ex- 
ample does  she  show  me.  I  hope  in  God  I  shall 
never  follow  it.  I  have  not  told  you  all,  nor  can 
I;  I  respect  you  as  a  female,  nor  altho  I  ought 
to  confide  in  you  as  a  sistex',  will  I  shock  you 
with  the  repetition  of  the  scenes  which  you  may 
judge  of  by  the  sample  I  have  given  vou,  and 
which  to  all  but  you  are  buried  in  oblivion. 
Would  they  were  so  in  my  mind!  I  am  afraid 
they  never  will.  And  can  I,  my  dear  sister,  look 
up  to  this  mother,  with  that  respect,  that  affection 
I  ought?  Am  I  to  be  eternally  subject  to  her 
caprice?  I  hope  not — indeed,  a  few  short  years 
will  emancipate  me  from  the  shackles  I  now 
wear,  and  then  perhaps  she  will  govern  her  pas- 
sion better  than  at  present. 

You  mistake  me  if  you  think  I  dislike  Lord 
Carlisle.  I  respect  him  and  might  like  him  did 
I  know  him  better.  For  him  too  my  mother  has 
an  antipathy,  why  I  know  not.  I  am  afraid  he 
will  be  of  little  use  to  me  in  separating  me  from 
her,  which  she  would  oppose  with  all  her  might. 
But  I  dare  saj'  he  will  assist  me  if  he  would,  so 
I  take  the  will  for  the  deed,  and  am  obliged  to 
him  in  exactlj^  the  same  manner  as  if  he  suc- 
ceeded in  his  efforts.  I  am  in  great  hopes  that 
at  Christmas  I  will  be  with  Mr.  Hanson  during 
the  vacation.  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  avoid  a 
visit  to  my  mother  wherever  she  is.  It  is  the 
first  duty  of  a  parent  to  impress  precepts  of 
obedience  in  their  children,  but  her  method  is 
so  violent,  so  capricious,  that  the  patience  of 
Job,  the  versatility  of  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons  would  not  support  it.  I  revere  Dr. 
Drury  much  more  than  I  do  her,  yet  he  is  never 

136 


LORD  BYRON 


violent,  never  outrageous :  I  dread  offending  him, 
not  however  through  Tear,  but  the  respect  1  bear 
him  makes  me  unhappy  when  I  am  under  his 
displeasure.  My  mother's  precepts  never  convey 
instruction,  never  fix  upon  my  mind;  to  be  sure 
they  are  calculated  to  inculcate  obedience,  so  are 
chains  and  tortures,  but  tho  they  may  restrain 
for  a  time  the  mind  revolts  fx'om  such  treatment. 

Not  that  Mrs.  Byron  ever  injures  my  sacred 
person.  I  am  rather  too  old  for  that,  but  her 
words  are  of  that  rough  texture  which  offend 
more  than  personal  ill  usage.  ''A  talkative 
woman  is  like  an  adder's  tongue,"  so  says  one 
of  the  prophets, but  which  I  can't  tell,  and  very 
likely  you  don't  wish  to  know,  but  he  was  a 
true  one  whoever  he  was. 

The  postage  of  your  letters,  my  dear  Augusta, 
don't  fall  upon  me;  but  if  they  did  it  would 
make  no  difference,  for  I  am  generally  in  cash 
and  should  think  the  trifle  I  paid  for  your  epistles 
the  best  laid  out  I  ever  spent  in  my  life.  Write 
soon.  Remember  me  to  Lord  Carlisle,  and  be- 
lieve me,  I  am  ever 

Your  affectionate  brother  and  friend, 

Btrone.* 

*Sie.  The  name  was  formerly  spelled  tliis  way  and  the 
last  syllable  pronounced  rone. 


137 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 


n 

TO  HIS  WIFE  AFTER  THE  SEPARA- 
TION' 

I  HAVE  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  ''Ada's 
hair,"  which  is  very  soft  and  pretty  and  nearly 
as  dark  already  as  mine  was  at  twelve  years  old, 
if  I  may  judge  from  what  I  recollect  of  some 
in  Augusta's  possession  taken  at  that  age.  But 
it  don't  curl  perhaps  from  it  being  let  grow. 

I  also  thank  you  for  the  inscription  of  the 
date  and  the  name,  and  I  will  tell  you  why: 
I  believe  they  are  the  only  two  or  three  words 
of  your  handwriting  in  my  possession.  For  your 
letters  I  returned  and  except  the  two  words,  or 
rather  the  one  word,  "household"  written  twice 
in  an  old  account  book,  I  have  no  other.  I 
burned  your  last  note  for  two  reasons:  firstly, 
it  was  written  in  a  style  not  vei'y  agreeable; 
and  secondly,  I  wish  to  take  your  word  without 
documents,  which  are  the  worldly  resources  of 
suspicious  people.  I  suppose  that  this  note  will 
reach  you  somewhere  about  Ada's  birthday — the 
10th  of  December,  I  believe.  She  will  then  be 
six,  so  that  in  about  twelve  more  I  shall  have 
some  chance  of  meeting  her;  perhaps  sooner  if 
I  am  obliged  to  go  to  England  by  business  or 
otherwise.     Recollect,  however,  one  thing  either 

■Letter  dated  "Pisa,  November  17,  1821,"  five  years  after 
the  separation,  and  addrest  "To  tlie  caro  of  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Leigh  [his  sister],  London."  After  he  went  abroad  in  1816, 
Byron  and  his  wife  never  met  again;  nor  did  he  ever 
return  to   England,   except  when  dead,   for   burial. 

188 


LORD  BYRON 


in  distance  or  nearness;  every  day  that  keeps 
us  asunder  should  after  so  long  a  period  rather 
soften  our  mutual  feelings,  which  must  always 
have  one  rallying  point  so  long  as  our  child 
exists,  which  I  presume  we  both  hope  will  be 
long  after  either  of  her  parents. 

The  time  which  has  elapsed  since  our  separa- 
tion has  been  considerably  more  than  the  whole 
brief  period  of  our  union,  and  the  not  much 
longer  one  of  our  prior  acquaintance.  We  both 
made  a  bitter  mistake,  but  now  it  is  over  and 
irrevocably  so.  For,  at  thirty-three  on  my  part, 
and  a  few  years  less  on  yours,  tho  it  is  no  very 
extended  period  of  life,  still  it  is  one  when  the 
habits  and  thought  are  generally  so  formed  as 
to  admit  of  no  modification;  and  as  we  could 
not  agree  while  young,  we  should  with  diflficulty 
do  so  now. 

I  say  all  this  because  I  own  to  you,  that,  not- 
withstanding everything,  I  considered  our  union 
as  not  impossible  for  more  than  a  year  after  the 
separation;  but  then  I  gave  up  the  hope  entirely 
and  forever.  But  the  very  impossibility  of  re- 
union seems  to  me  at  least  a  reason  why,  on  all 
the  few  points  of  discussion  which  can  arise  be- 
tween us,  we  should  preserve  the  courtesies  of 
life,  and  as  much  of  its  kindness  as  people  who 
are  never  to  meet  may  preserve  perhaps  more 
easily  than  nearer  connections.  For  my  own 
part,  I  am  violent  but  not  malignant ;  for  only 
fresh  pi'ovocation  can  awaken  my  resentment. 
To  you,  who  are  colder  and  more  concentrated, 
I  would  just  hint  that  you  may  sometimes  mis- 
take the  depth  of  a  cold  anger  for  dignity  and 
a  worse  feeling  for  duty.     I  assure  you  that  I 


139 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

bear  you  now  (whatever  I  may  have  done)  no 
resentment  whatever.  Remember,  that  if  you 
have  injured  me  in  aught,  the  forgiveness  is 
something;  and  that  if  I  have  injured  you  it  is 
something  more  still,  if  it  be  true,  as  the  moralists 
say,  that  the  most  offending  are  the  least  for- 
giving. 

Whether  the  offense  has  been  solely  on  my 
side,  or  reciprocal,  or  on  yours  chiefly,  I  havQ 
ceased  to  reflect  upon  any  but  two  things,  viz., 
that  you  are  the  mother  of  my  child,  and  that 
we  shall  never  meet  again.  I  think  if  you  also 
consider  the  two  corresponding  points  with  refer- 
ence to  myself,  it  will  be  better  for  all  three. 
Yours   ever, 

Noel  Byron. 


Ill 

TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT* 

My  Dear  Sir  "Walter  —  I  need  not  say  how 
grateful  I  am  for  your  lettei",  but  I  must  own  my 
ingratitude  in  not  having  written  to  you  again 
long  ago.  Since  I  left  England  (and  it  is  not 
for  all  the  usual  tenn  of  transportation)  I  have 
scribbled  to  five  hundred  blockheads  on  business, 
etc.,  without  difficulty,  tho  with  no  great  pleas- 
ure; and  yet,  with  the  notion  of  addressing  you 
a  hundred  times  in  my  head,  and  always  in  my 
heart,  I  have  not  done  what  I  ought  to  have 
done.     I  can  only  account  for  it  on  the  same 

♦Letter  dated   "Pisa,   Jan.   12,    1822." 
140 


LORD  BYRON 


principle  of  tremulous  auxiety  with  which  one 
sometimes  makes  love  to  a  beautiful  woman  of 
our  own  degree,  with  whom  one  is  enamored  in 
good  earnest;  whereas  we  attack  a  fresh-colored 
housemaid  without  (I  speak,  of  course,  of  earlier 
times)  any  sentimental  remorse  or  mitigation 
of  our  virtuous  purpose. 

I  owe  to  you  far  more  than  usual  obligation  for 
the  courtesies  of  literature  and  common  friend- 
ship; for  you  went  out  of  your  way  in  1817  to 
do  me  a  service,  when  it  required  not  merely 
kindness,  but  courage  to  do  so;  to  have  been 
recorded  by  you  in  such  a  manner  would  have 
been  a  proud  memorial  at  any  time,  but  at  such 
a  time,  when  "all  the  world  and  his  wife,"  as 
the  proverb  goes,  w'ere  trying  to  trample  upon 
me,  was  something  still  higher  to  my  self-esteem 
■ — I  allude  to  the  Quarterly  Review  of  the  Third 
Canto  of  "Childe  Harold,"  which  Murray  told  me 
■was  written  by  you — and,  indeed,  1  should  have 
known  it  without  his  information,  as  there  could 
not  be  two  who  could  and  would  have  done  this 
at  the  time.  Had  it  been  a  common  criticism, 
however  eloquent  or  panegyrical,  I  should  have 
felt  pleased,  undoubtedl}'^,  and  grateful,  but  not 
to  the  extent  which  the  extraordinary  good- 
heartedness  of  the  whole  proceeding  must  induce 
in  any  mind  capable  of  such  sensations.  The 
very  tardiness  of  this  acknowledgment  will,  at 
least,  show  that  I  have  not  forgotten  the  obliga- 
tion; and  I  can  assure  you  that  my  sense  of  it 
has  been  out  at  compound  interest  during  the 
delay.  I  shall  only  add  one  word  upon  the  sub- 
ject, which  is,  that  I  think  that  you,  and  Jeffrey, 
and  Leigh  Hunt,  were  the  only  literary  men,  of 

141 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

numbers  whom  I  know  (and  some  of  whom  I 
had  served),  who  dared  venture  even  an  anony- 
mous word  in  my  favor  just  then:  and  that,  of 
those  three,  I  had  never  seen  one  at  all — of  the 
second  much  less  than  I  desired — and  that  the  third 
was  under  no  kind  of  obligation  to  me  whatever; 
while  the  other  two  had  been  actually  attacked 
by  me  on  a  former  occasion;  one,  indeed,  with 
some  provocation,  but  the  other  wantonly  enough. 
So  you  see  you  have  been  heaping  "coals  of 
fire,"  etc.,  in  the  true  gospel  manner,  and  I  can 
assure  you  that  they  have  burned  down  to  my 
very  heart. 

I  am  glad  you  accepted  the  Inscription.'  I 
meant  to  have  inscribed  "The  Foscarini"  to  you 
instead ;  but,  first,  I  heard  that  * '  Cain ' '  was  thought 
the  least  bad  of  the  two  as  a  composition;  and, 
secondly,  I  have  abused  Southey  like  a  pick- 
pocket, in  a  note  to  "The  Foscarini,"  and  I  rec- 
ollected that  he  is  a  friend  of  yours  (tho  not 
of  mine),  and  that  it  would  not  be  the  handsome 
thing  to  dedicate  to  one  fi-iend  anything  con- 
taining such  matters  about  another.  However, 
I'll  work  the  Laureate  before  I  have  done  there- 
for. I  like  a  row,  and  always  did  from  a  boy, 
in  the  course  of  which  propensity,  I  must  needs 
say,  that  I  have  found  it  the  most  easy  of  all 
to  be  gratified,  personally  and  poetically.  You 
disclaim  "jealousies";  but  I  would  ask,  as  Bos- 
well  did  of  Johnson,  "of  whom  could  you  be 
jealous?" — of  none  of  the  living  certainly,  and 
(taking  all  and  all  into  consideration)  of  which 
of  the  dead?  I  don't  like  to  bore  you  about 
the  Scotch  novels   (as  they  call  them,  tho  two 

•  Byron's  "Cain"   was   inscribed  to   Scott. 

142 


LORD  BYRON 


of  them  are  wholly  English,  and  the  rest  half 
so),  but  nothing  can  or  could  ever  persuade  me, 
since  I  was  the  first  ten  minutes  in  your  com- 
pany, that  you  are  not  the  man.  To  me  those 
novels  have  so  much  of  "Auld  lang  syne"  (I 
was  bred  a  canny  Scot  till  ten  years  old),  that 
I  never  move  without  them;  and  when  I  removed 
from  Ravenna  to  Pisa  the  other  day,  and  sent 
on  my  library  before,  they  were  the  only  books 
that  I  kept  by  me,  altho  I  already  have  them 
by  heart. 


IV 

OF  ART  AND  NATURE  AS  POETICAL 
SUBJECTS* 

The  beautiful  but  barren  Hymettus — the  whole 
coast  of  Attica,  her  hills  and  mountains,  Pente- 
licus,  Anchesmus,  Philopappus,  etc.,  etc. — are  in 
themselves  poetical,  and  would  be  so  if  the  name 
of  Athens,  of  Athenians,  and  her  very  ruins, 
were  swept  from  the  earth.  But  am  I  to  be 
told  that  the  "nature"  of  Attica  would  be  more 
poetical  without  the  **art"  of  the  Acropolis?  of 
the  temple  of  Theseus?  and  of  the  still  all  Greek 
and  glorious  monuments  of  her  exquisitely  artifi- 
cial genius?    Ask  the  traveler  what  strikes  him 

•From  the  reply  to  Bowles.  William  L.  Bowles,  clergy- 
man, poet  and  antiquarian,  was  born  in  1762.  and  died  In 
1850.  In  1806  he  had  issued  an  edition  of  Pope  In  ten 
volumes,  to  which  was  preflxt  a  sketch  of  the  poet'e  life,  with 
severe  criticisms  on  hie  poetry.  These  criticisms  gave  rise 
to  a  controversy,  famous  in  its  time  and  long  afterward,  and 
to  which  Byron's  article  was  a  notable  contribution. 

143 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

as  most  poetical — the  Parthenon,  or  the  rock  on 
which  it  stands'?  The  cohimns  of  Cape  Colonna,' 
or  the  cape  itself?  The  rocks  at  the  foot  of  it, 
or  the  recollection  that  Falconer's  ship*  was 
bulged  upon  them?  There  are  a  thousand  rocks 
and  capes  far  more  picturesque  than  those  of 
the  Acropolis  and  Cape  Sunium  in  themselves; 
what  are  they  to  a  thousand  scenes  in  the  wilder 
parts  of  Greece,  of  Asia  Minor,  Switzerland,  or 
even  of  Cintra  in  Portugal,  or  to  many  scenes 
of  Italy,  and  the  Sierras  of  Spain? 

But  it  is  the  *'art,"  the  columns,  the  temples, 
the  wrecked  vessels,  which  give  them  their  an- 
tique and  their  modern  poetry  and  not  the  spots 
themselves.  Without  them,  the  spots  of  earth 
would  be  unnoticed  and  unknown;  buried,  like 
Babylon  and  Nineveh,  in  indistinct  confusion, 
without  poetry,  as  without  existence;  but  to 
whatever  spot  of  earth  these  ruins  were  trans- 
ported, if  they  were  capable  of  transportation, 
like  the  obelisk,  and  the  sphinx,  and  Memnon's 
head,  there  they  would  still  exist  in  the  per- 
fection of  their  beauty,  and  in  the  pride  of  their 
poetry.  I  opposed,  and  will  ever  oppose,  the 
Jobbery  of  ruins  from  Athens  to  instruct  the 
English  in  sculpture;  but  why  did  I  do  so?  The 
ruins  are  as  poetical  in  Piccadilly  as  they  were 
in   the  Parthenon;   but   the   Parthenon   and   its 

*  Cape  Colonna  (anciently  called  Sunium)  lies  at  the 
southenEtern  end  of  Attica  and  is  a  promontory. 

*The  reference  is  to  William  Falconer,  second  mate  of  s 
ship  in  the  Levantine  trade,  which  was  wrecked  during  a 
voyage  from  Alexandria  to  Venice.  Falconer  became  a  poet, 
and  his  work,  "The  Shipwreck,"  was  founded  on  his  own 
experience. 

144 


LORD  BYRO^ 


rock  are  less  so  without  them.  Such  is  the 
poetry  of  art. 

Mr.  Bowles  contends  again  that  the  pyramids 
of  Egypt  are  poetical  because  of  "the  associa- 
tion with  boundless  deserts,"  and  that  a  "pyr- 
amid of  the  same  dimensions"  would  not  be 
sublime  in  "  Lincoln 's-Inn-Fields":  not  so  poet- 
ical certainly;  but  take  away  the  "pyramids," 
And  what  is  the  "desert"?  Take  away  Stone- 
henge  from  Salisbury  Plain,  and  it  is  nothing 
more  than  Hounslow  Heath,  or  any  other  un- 
inclosed  down.  It  appears  to  me  that  St.  Peter's 
the  Coliseum,  the  Pantheon,  the  Palatine,  the 
Apollo,  the  Laocoon,  the  Venus  dei  Medici,  the 
Hercules,  the  Dying  Gladiator,  the  Moses  of 
Michelangelo,  and  all  the  higher  works  of 
Canova  (I  have  already  spoken  of  those  of  an- 
cient Greece,  still  extant  in  that  country,  or 
transported  to  England),  are  as  poetical  as  Mont 
Blanc,  or  Mount  yEtna,  perhaps  still  more  so,  as 
they  are  direct  manifestations  of  mind,  and  pre- 
suppose poetry  in  their  very  conception;  and 
have,  moreover,  as  being  such,  a  something  of 
aiitual  life,  which  can  not  belong  to  any  part  of 
inanimate  nature — unless  we  adopt  the  system 
of  Spinoza,  that  the  woi-ld  is  the  Deity.  There 
can  be  nothing  more  poetical  in  its  aspect  than 
the  city  of  Venice;  does  this  depend  upon  the 
sea,  or  the  canals? 

"The  dirt  and  seaweed  whence  proud  Venice 
rose?" 

Is  it  the  canal  which  runs  between  the  palace 
and  the  prison,  or  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  which 
connects  them,  that  renders  it  poetical  T     Is  it 

V— 10  145 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

the  Canal  Grande,  or  the  Rialto  which  arches  it, 
the  churches  which  tower  over  it,  the  palaces 
which  line,  and  the  gondolas  which  glide  over, 
the  waters,  that  render  this  city  more  poetical 
than  Rome  itself?  Mr.  Bowles  will  say,  pex-haps, 
that  the  Rialto  is  but  marble,  the  palaces  and 
churches  are  only  stone,  and  the  gondolas  a 
"coarse"  black  cloth  thrown  over  some  planks  of 
carved  wood,  with  a  shining  bit  of  fantastically 
formed  iron  at  the  prow,  "without"  the  water. 
And  I  tell  him  that,  without  these,  the  water 
would  be  nothing  but  a  clay-colored  ditch;  and 
whoever  says  the  contrary  deserves  to  be  at  the 
bottom  of  that  where  Pope's  heroes  are  embraced 
by  the  mud  nymphs.  There  would  be  nothing 
to  make  the  canal  of  Venice  more  poetical  than 
that  of  Paddington,  were  it  not  for  the  artificial 
adjuncts  above  mentioned,  aitho  it  is  a  perfectly 
natural  canal,  formed  by  the  sea  and  the  in- 
nvmierable  islands  which  constitute  the  site  of 
this  extraordinary  city. 

The  very  Cloaca  of  Tarquin  at  Rome  are  as 
poetical  as  Richmond  Hill;  many  will  think  so: 
take  away  Rome  and  leave  the  Tiber  and  the 
seven  hills  in  the  nature  of  Evander's  time.  Let 
Mr.  Bowles,  or  Mr.  Wordsworth,  or  Mr.  Southey, 
or  any  of  the  other  "naturals,"  make  a  poem 
upon  them,  and  then  see  which  is  most  poetical 
— their  production,  or  the  commonest  guide-book 
which  tells  you  the  road  from  St.  Peter's  to  the 
Coliseum,  and  informs  you  what  you  will  see 
by  the  way.  The  ground  interests  in  Virgil, 
because  it  will  be  Rome,  and  not  because  it  is 
Evander's  rural  domain. 

Mr.  Bowles  then  proceeds  to  press  Homer  into 

149 


LORD  BYRON 


his  service  in  answer  to  a  remark  of  Mr.  Camp- 
bell's, that  "Homer  was  a  great  describer  of 
works  of  art."  Mr.  Bowles  contends  that  all 
his  gi'eat  power,  even  in  this,  depends  upon  their 
connection  with  nature.  The  "shield  of  Achilles 
derives  its  poetical  interest  from  the  subjects 
described  on  it."  And  from  what  does  the  spear 
of  Achilles  derive  its  interest?  and  the  helmet 
and  the  mail  worn  by  Patroclus,  and  the  celes- 
tial armor,  and  the  very  brazen  greaves  of  the 
well-booted  Greeks?  Is  it  solely  from  the  legs, 
and  the  back,  and  the  breast,  and  the  human 
body,  which  they  enclose?  In  that  case  it  would 
have  been  more  poetical  to  have  made  them  fight 
naked;  and  Gully  and  Gregson,  as  being  nearer 
to  a  state  of  nature  are  more  poetical  boxing 
in  a  pair  of  drawers,  than  Hector  and  Achilles 
in  radiant  armor  and  with  heroic  weapons. 

Instead  of  the  clash  of  helmets,  and  the  rushing 
of  chariots,  and  the  whizzing  of  spears,  and  the 
glancing  of  swords,  and  the  cleaving  of  shields, 
and  the  piercing  of  breastplates,  why  not  repre- 
sent the  Greeks  and  Ti'ojans  like  two  savage 
tribes,  tugging  and  tearing,  and  kicking  and 
biting,  and  gnashing,  foaming,  grinning,  and 
gouging,  in  all  the  poetry  of  martial  nature, 
unencumbered  with  gross,  prosaic,  artificial  arms; 
an  equal  superfluity  to  the  natural  warrior  and 
his  natural  poet?  Is  there  anything  unpoetical 
in  Ulysses  striking  the  horses  of  Rhesus  with 
his  bow  (having  forgotten  his  thong),  or  would 
Mr.  Bowles  have  had  him  kick  them  with  his 
foot,  or  smack  them  with  his  hand,  as  being 
more  unsophisticated? 

In  Gray's  "Elegy"  is  there  an  image  more 

147 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

striking  than  his  ''shapeless  sculpture"?  Of 
sculpture  in  general,  it  may  be  observed  that 
it  is  more  poetical  than  nature  itself,  inasmuch 
as  it  represents  and  bodies  forth  that  ideal  beauty 
and  sublimity  which  is  never  to  be  found  in 
actual  nature.  This,  at  least,  is  the  general 
opinion.  But,  always  excepting  the  Venus  del 
Medici,  I  differ  from  that  opinion,  at  least  as 
far  as  regards  female  beauty;  for  the  head  of 
Lady  Claremont  (when  I  first  saw  her  nine  years 
ago)  seemed  to  possess  all  that  sculpture  could 
require  for  its  ideal.  I  recollect  seeing  some- 
thing of  the  same  kind  in  the  head  of  an  Al- 
banian girl,  who  was  actually  employed  in  mend- 
ing a  road  in  the  mountains,  and  in  some  Greek, 
and  one  or  two  Italian  faces.  But  of  sublimity 
I  have  never  seen  anj'thing  in  human  nature  at 
all  to  approach  the  expression  of  sculpture,  either 
in  the  Apollo,  in  the  Moses,  or  other  of  the 
sterner  works  of  ancient  or  modern  art. 

Let  us  examine  a  little  further  this  ''babble 
of  green  fields"  and  of  bare  nature  in  general 
as  superior  to  artificial  imagery,  for  the  poetical 
purposes  of  the  fine  arts.  In  landscape  painting 
the  great  artist  does  not  give  you  a  literal  copy 
of  a  countrj'^,  but  he  invents  and  composes  one. 
Nature,  in  her  natural  aspect,  does  not  furnish 
him  with  such  existing  scenes  as  he  requires. 
Everywhere  he  presents  you  with  some  famous 
city,  or  celebrated  scene  from  mountain  or  other 
nature;  it  must  be  taken  from  some  particular 
point  of  view,  and  with  such  light,  and  shade, 
and  distance,  etc.,  as  serve  not  only  to  heighten 
its  beauties,  but  to  shadow  its  deformities.  The 
poetry  of  nature  alone,  exactly  as  she  appears, 

148 


LORD  BYRON 


is  not  sufficient  to  bear  Iiira  out.  The  very  sky 
of  his  painting  is  not  the  portrait  of  the  sky 
of  nature;  it  is  a  composition  of  different  skies, 
observed  at  different  times,  and  not  the  whole 
copied  from  any  particular  day.  And  whyf 
Because  nature  is  not  lavish  of  her  beauties; 
they  are  widely  scattered  and  occasionally  dis- 
played, to  be  selected  with  care  and  gathered 
with  difficulty.     ,    .    . 

Art  is  not  inferior  to  nature  for  poetical  pur- 
poses. What  makes  a  regiment  of  soldiers  a 
more  noble  object  of  view  than  the  same  mass 
of  mob?  Their  arms,  their  dresses,  their  ban- 
ners, and  the  art  and  artificial  symmetry  of  their 
position  and  movements.  A  Highlander's  plaid, 
a  Mussulman's  turban,  and  a  Roman  toga  are 
more  poetical  than  the  tattooed  or  untattooed  New 
Sandwich  savages,  altho  they  were  described  by 
William  Wordsworth  himself  like  the  **  idiot  in 
his  glory." 

1  have  seen  as  many  mountains  as  most  men, 
and  more  fleets  than  the  generality  of  landsmen; 
and,  to  my  mind,  a  large  convoy  with  a  few 
sail  of  the  line  to  conduct  them  is  as  noble  and 
as  Doetical  a  prospect  as  all  that  inanimate  na- 
ture can  produce.  I  prefer  the  **mast  of  some 
great  admiral,"  with  all  its  tackle,  to  the  Scotch 
fir  or  the  Alpine  tarnen,  and  think  that  more 
poetry  has  been  made  out  of  it.  In  what  does 
the  infinite  superiority  of  Falconer's  "Ship- 
wreck" over  all  other  shipwrecks  consist?  In 
bis  admirable  application  of  the  terms  of  his 
art;  in  a  poet  sailor's  description  of  the  sailor's 
fate.  These  very  terms,  by  his  application,  make 
the   strength   and   reality   of   his   poem.     Whyf 


149 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

because  he  was  a  poet,  and  in  the  hands  of  a 
poet  art  will  not  be  found  less  ornamental  than 
nature.  It  is  precisely  in  general  nature,  and 
in  stepping  out  of  his  element,  that  Falconer 
fails;  where  he  digresses  to  speak  of  ancient 
Greece,  and  "such  branches  of  learning," 


ifiO 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Bom  in  1792,  drowned  at  Spezia,  Italy,  in  1822;  educated 
St  Eton  and  Oxford,  being  expelled  from  the  latter  for 
publishing  a  pamphlet  on  atheism;  married  Harriet  West- 
brook  in  1811;  met  Mary  Woolstonecraft  in  1814,  and 
went  to  live  with  her  in  Switzerland,  abandoning  Harriet; 
returned  to  England  in  1815  and  settled  near  Windsor 
Forest;  joined  Byron  in  Switzerland  in  1816;  in  the  same 
year,  Harriet  having  drowned  herself,  ho  married  Mary; 
bis  body  consumed  on  a  funeral  pyre  at  Spe/.ia  in  the 
presence  of  Leigh  Hunt,  Byron  and  Treiawny;  published 
"Queen  Mab"  in  1813;  "Alastor"  in  1816;  "Prometheus 
Unbound"  In  1820;  bis  works  collected  by  his  wife  in  1830. 


IN  DEFENSE  OF  POETRY* 

The  functions  of  the  poetical  faculty  are  two- 
fold; by  one  it  creates  new  materials  of  knowl- 
edge, and  power,  and  pleasure;  by  the  other  it 
engenders  in  the  mind  a  desire  to  reproduce 
and  arrange  them  according  to  a  certain  rhythm 
and  order  which  may  be  called  the  beautiful  and 
the  good.  The  cultivation  of  poetry  is  never 
more  to  be  desired  than  at  periods  when,  from 
an  excess  of  the  selfish  and  calculating  principle, 

>From  an  essay  written  sometime  in  1820-21,  and  sug- 
gested by  an  article  on  poetry  which  his  friend,  Thomas 
Love  Peacock,  had  contributed  to  the  Literary  Miscellany. 
John  Addington  Symonds,  one  of  Bhelley's  biographers, 
cites  this  paper  as  containing  some  of  the  finest  prose 
writing  of  Shelley. 

2S1 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

the  accumulation  of  the  materials  of  external 
life  exceed  the  quantity  of  the  power  of  assim- 
ilating them  to  the  internal  laws  of  human  na- 
ture. The  body  has  then  become  too  unwieldy 
for  that  which  animates  it. 

Poetry  is  indeed  something  divine.  It  is  at 
once  the  center  and  circumfex'ence  of  knowledge; 
it  is  that  which  comprehends  all  science,  and 
that  to  which  all  science  must  be  referred.  It 
is  at  the  same  time  the  root  and  blossom  of  all 
other  systems  of  thought;  it  is  that  from  which 
all  spring,  and  that  which  adorns  all;  and  that 
■which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit  and  the  seed, 
and  withholds  from  the  barren  world  the  nourish- 
ment and  the  succession  of  the  scions  of  the 
tree  of  life.  It  is  the  perfect  and  consummate 
surface  and  bloom  of  all  things;  it  is  as  the 
odor  and  the  color  of  the  rose  to  the  texture 
of  the  elements  which  compose  it,  as  the  form 
and  splendor  of  unfaded  beauty  to  the  secrets 
of  anatomy  and  corruption.  What  were  virtue, 
love,  patriotism,  friendship — what  were  the  sce- 
nery of  this  beautiful  universe  which  we  inhabit 
' — what  were  our  consolations  on  this  side  of 
the  grave — and  what  were  our  aspirations  beyond 
it,  if  poetry  did  not  ascend  to  bring  light  and 
fire  from  those  eternal  regions  where  the  owl- 
winged  faculty  of  calculation  dare  not  ever  soar  ? 

Poetry  is  not  like  reasoning,  a  power  to  be 
exerted  according  to  the  determination  of  the 
will.  A  man  can  not  say  it:  *'I  will  compose 
poetry."  The  greatest  poet  even  can  not  say 
it;  for  the  mind  in  creation  is  as  a  fading  coal, 
which  some  invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant 
wind,    awakens    to    transitory    brightness;    this 

162 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


power  arises  from  within,  like  the  color  of  a 
flower  which  fades  and  changes  as  it  is  developed, 
and  the  conscious  portions  of  our  natures  are 
unprophetic  either  of  its  approach  or  its  depar- 
ture. Could  this  influence  be  durable  in  its 
original  purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible  to 
predict  the  greatness  of  the  results;  but  when 
composition  begins,  inspiration  is  already  on  the 
decline,  and  the  most  glorious  poetry  that  has 
ever  been  communicated  to  the  world  is  probably 
a  feeble  shadow  of  the  original  conception  of 
the  poet.  I  appeal  to  the  greatest  poets  of  the 
present  day,  whether  it  is  not  an  error  to  assert 
that  the  finest  passages  of  poctr}'  are  produced 
by  labor  and  study.  The  toil  and  the  delay  rec- 
ommended by  critics  can  be  justly  interpreted 
to  mean  no  more  than  a  careful  observation  of 
the  inspired  moments,  and  an  artificial  connection 
of  the  space  between  their  suggestions  by  the 
intermixture  of  conventional  expression :  a  neces- 
sity only  imposed  by  the  liraitedness  of  the  poet- 
ical faculty  itself;  for  Milton  conceived  the 
"Paradise  Lost"  as  a  whole  before  he  executed 
it  in  portions.  We  have  his  own  authority  also 
for  the  muse  having  ''dictated"  to  him  the  "un- 
premeditated song."  And  let  this  be  an  answer 
to  those  who  allege  the  fifty-six  various  readings 
of  the  first  line  of  the  "Orlando  Furioso. "  Com- 
positions so  produced  are  to  poetry  what  mosaic 
is  to  painting.  This  instinct  and  intuition  of 
the  poetical  faculty  is  still  more  observable  in 
the  plastic  and  pictorial  arts;  a  great  statue  or 
picture  grows  under  the  power  of  the  artist  as  a 
child  in  the  mother's  womb;  and  the  very  mind 
which  directs  the  hands  in  formation  is  incapable 

153 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

of  accounting  to  itself  for  the  origin,  the  grada- 
tions or  the  media  of  the  process. 

Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest 
moments  of  the  happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are 
aware  of  evanescent  visitations  of  thought  and 
feeling  sometimes  associated  with  place  or  per- 
son, sometimes  regarding  our  own  mind  alone, 
and  always  arising  unforeseen  and  departing  un- 
bidden, but  elevating  and  delightful  beyond  all 
expression:  so  that  even  in  the  desire  and  the 
regret  they  leave,  there  can  not  but  be  pleasure, 
participating  as  it  does  in  the  nature  of  its  object. 
It  is  as  it  were  the  mterpenetration  of  a  diviner 
nature  through  our  own;  but  its  footsteps  are 
like  those  of  a  wind  over  the  sea  which  the  coming 
calm  erases,  and  wnose  traces  remain  only,  as 
on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and 
corresponding  conditions  of  being  are  experienced 
principally  by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sen- 
sibility and  the  most  enlarged  imagination;  and 
the  state  of  mind  produced  by  them  is  at  war 
with  every  base  desire.  The  enthusiasm  of  vir- 
tue, love,  patriotism,  and  friendship  is  essentially 
linked  with  such  emotions;  and  while  they  last, 
self  appears  as  what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a  universe. 
Poets  are  not  only  subject  to  these  experiences 
as  spirits  of  the  most  refined  organization,  but 
they  can  color  all  that  they  combine  with  the 
evanescent  hues  of  this  ethereal  world;  a  word, 
a  trait  in  the  representation  of  a  scene  or  a 
passion,  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  re- 
animate, in  those  who  have  ever  experienced 
these  emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the  buried 
image  of  the  past.  Poetry  thus  makes  immortal 
all  that  is  best  and  most  beautiful  in  the  world; 

154 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


it  arrests  the  vanishing  apparitions  which  haunt 
the  interlunations  of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or 
in  language  or  in  form,  sends  them  forth  among 
mankind,  bearing  sweet  news  of  kindred  joy  to 
those  with  whom  their  sisters  abide — abide,  be- 
cause there  is  no  portal  of  expression  from  the 
caverns  of  the  spirit  which  they  inhabit  into  the 
universe  of  things.  Poetry  redeems  from  decay 
the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man. 


n 

THE  BATHS  OF  CARACALLA* 

Tub  next  most  considerable  relic  of  antiquity, 
considered  as  a  ruin,  is  the  Thermae  of  Caracalla. 
These  consist  of  six  enormous  chambers,  above 
200  feet  in  height,  and  each  enclosing  a  vast 
space  like  that  of  a  field.  There  are  in  addition 
a  number  of  towers  and  labj'rin thine  recesses, 

•  One  of  Shelley's  many  letters  to  hie  friend,  Thomaa 
Love  Peacock,  of  which  Symonds  says:  "Taken  altogether, 
they  are  the  most  perfect  specimens  of  descriptive  prose 
in  the  EngHsh  language;  never  overcharged  with  color, 
vibrating  with  emotions  excited  by  the  stimulating  scenes 
of  Italy,  frank  in  criticisms,  and  exqulsitt^ly  delicate  in 
observation.  Their  transparent  sincerity  and  unpremeditated 
grace,  combined  with  natural  finish  of  expression,  make 
them  masterpieces  of  a  style  at  once  familiar  and  elevated.'* 
It  was  among  the  niins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  that 
Shelley  wrote  his  poem  "Prometheus  Unbound."  Of  this 
poem  Shelley  wrote  from  Florence  on  December  26,  1819,  a 
letter  the  original  of  which  if  now  owned  in  New  York  by 
Louis  V.  Ledoux:  "My  'Prometheus*  Is  the  best  thing  I  erex 
wrote." 

155 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

hidden  and  woven  over  by  the  wild  growth  of 
clinging  ivy.  Never  was  any  desolation  more  sub- 
lime and  lovely.  The  perpendicular  wall  of  ruin 
is  cl  ;ven  into  steep  ravines,  filled  up  with  flower- 
ing shrubs,  whose  thick  twisted  roots  are  knotted 
in  the  rifts  of  the  stone,  and  at  every  step  the 
aerial  pinnacles  of  shattered  stone  group  into 
new  combinations  of  effect,  towering  above  the 
lofty  yet  level  walls,  as  the  distant  mountains 
change  their  aspect  to  one  traveling  rapidly  to- 
ward the  skirts  by  masses  of  the  fallen  ruins, 
overturned  with  the  broad  leaves  of  the  creeping 
weeds.  The  blue  sky  canopies  it,  and  is  as  the 
everlasting  roof  of  these  enormous  halls.  But 
the  most  interesting  effect  remains. 

In  one  of  the  buttresses  that  supports  an  im- 
mense and  lofty  arch  "which  bridges  the  very 
■wings  of  heaven"  are  the  crumbling  remains  of 
an  antique  winding  staircase,  whose  sides  are 
open  in  many  places  to  the  precipice.  This  you 
ascend  and  arrive  on  the  summit  of  these  piles. 
There  grow  on  every  side  thick  entangled  wilder- 
nesses of  myrtle,  and  the  myrletus  and  bay  and 
the  flowering  laurestinus,  whose  white  blossoms 
are  just  developed,  the  white  fig  and  a  thousand 
nameless  plants  sown  by  the  wandering  winds. 
These  woods  are  intersected  on  every  side  by 
paths,  like  sheep  tracks  through  the  copse  wood 
of  steep  mountains,  which  wind  to  every  part  of 
the  immense  labyrinth.  From  the  midst  rise 
those  pinnacles  and  masses,  themselves  like 
masses  which  have  been  seen  far  below.  In  one 
place  you  wind  along  a  narrow  strip  of  weed- 
grown  ruin:  on  one  side  is  the  immensity  of 
earth   and  sky,  on   the  other  a  nairow   chasm, 

166 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


which  is  bounded  by  an  arch  of  enormous  size, 
tinged  by  the  many  colored  foliage  and  blossoms 
and  supporting  an  irregular  pyramid  overgrown 
like  itself  with  the  all-pervading  vegetation. 
Around  rise  other  crags  and  other  peaks,  all 
arrayed  and  the  deformity  of  their  vast  desola- 
tion softened  down  by  the  undecaying  investiture 
of  nature.  Come  to  Rome — it  is  a  scene  by  which 
expression  is  overpowered,  which  words  can  not 
convey. 

Still  winding  np  one-half  of  the  shattered 
pyramids,  by  the  path  through  the  blooming 
wood,  you  come  to  a  little  mossy  lawn  surrounded 
by  the  wild  shrubs;  it  is  overgrown  with  anem- 
ones, wall  flowers  and  violets,  whose  stalks 
pierce  the  starry  moss,  and  with  radiant  blue 
flowers  whose  name  I  know  not,  and  which  scatter 
through  the  air  the  divinest  odor;  which,  as  you 
recline  under  the  shade  of  the  ruin,  produces 
sensations  of  voluptuous  faintness,  like  the  com- 
binations of  sweet  music.  The  paths  still  wind 
on,  threading  the  perplexed  windings,  other  laby- 
rinths, other  lawns,  deep  dells  of  wood,  and  lofty 
rocks  and  terrific  chasms.  When  I  tell  you  that 
these  ruins  cover  several  acres  and  that  the  paths 
alone  penetrate  at  least  half  their  extent,  your 
imagination  will  fill  up  all  that  I  am  unable  to 
express  of  the  astonishing  scene. 


tB7 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

in 

THE  RUINS  OF  POMPEII* 

Since  you  last  heard  from  me  we  have  been 
to  see  Pompeii  and  we  are  now  waiting  for  the 
return  of  spring  weather,  to  visit,  first  Psestum, 
and  then  the  islands;  after  which  we  shall  return 
to  Rome.  I  was  astonished  at  the  remains  of 
this  city.  I  had  no  conception  of  anything  so 
perfect  yet  remaining.  My  idea  of  the  mode 
of  its  destruction  was  this:  first  an  earthquake 
came  and  shattered  it,  and  unroofed  almost  all 
its  temples  and  split  its  columns;  then  a  rain 
of  light  small  pumice-stones  fell;  then  torrents 
of  boiling  water  mixt  with  ashes  filled  up  its 
crevices. 

A  wide  flat  hill  from  which  the  city  was  ex- 
cavated is  now  covered  with  woods,  and  you  see 
the  tombs  and  theaters,  the  temples  and  houses, 
surrounded  by  uninhabited  wilderness.  We  en- 
tered the  town  from  the  sides  toward  the  sea, 
and  first  saw  two  theaters;  one  more  magnificent 
than  the  other,  strewn  with  the  ruins  of  the  white 
marble  which  formed  their  seats  and  cornices, 
wrought  with  deep  bold  sculpture.  In  the  front 
between  the  stage  and  the  seats  is  the  circular 
space  occasionally  occupied  by  the  chorus.  The 
stage  is  very  narrow  but  long  and  divided  from 
this  space  by  a  narrow  enclosure  parallel  to  it, 
I  suppose  for  the  orchestra.     On  each  side  are 

•A  letter  to  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  dated  "Kaples,  Jan. 
86,    1819." 

158 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


the  Consuls'  boxes,  and  below  in  the  theater  of 
Herculaneum  were  found  two  equestrian  statues 
of  excellent  workmanship,  occupying  the  same 
space  as  the  great  bronze  lamps  did  at  Drury 
Lane.  The  smallest  of  the  theaters  is  said  to 
have  been  comic,  tho  I  should  doubt.  From  both 
you  see,  as  you  sit  on  the  seats,  a  prospect  of 
the  most  wonderful  beauty. 

You  then  pass  through  ancient  streets;  they 
are  very  narrow  and  the  houses  rather  small, 
but  are  constructed  on  an  admirable  plan,  espe- 
cially for  the  climate.  The  rooms  are  built  round 
a  court,  or  sometimes  two,  according  to  the  extent 
of  the  house.  In  the  midst  is  a  fountain  some- 
times surrounded  with  a  portico,  supported  on 
fluted  columns  of  white  stucco;  the  floor  is  paved 
with  mosaics  sometimes  wrought  in  imitation  of 
vine  leaves,  sometimes  in  quaint  figures,  and  more 
or  less  beautiful  according  to  the  rank  of  the 
inhabitant.  There  were  paintings  on  all,  but 
most  of  them  have  been  removed  to  decorate  the 
royal  museums.  Little  winged  figures  and  small 
ornaments  of  exquisite  elegance  yet  remain.  There 
is  an  ideal  life  in  the  fonns  of  these  paintings 
of  an  incomparable  loveliness,  tho  most  are  evi- 
dently the  work  of  very  inferior  artists.  It  seems 
as  If  from  the  atmosphere  of  mental  beauty  that 
surrounds  them,  every  human  being  caught  a 
splendor  not  his  own. 

In  one  house  you  see  how  the  bedrooms  were 
managed:  a  small  sofa  was  built  up,  where  the 
cushions  were  placed;  two  pictures,  one  repre- 
senting Diana  and  Endymion  and  the  other  Venus 
and  Mars,  decorate  the  chamber;  and  a  little 
niche  which  contains  the  statue  of  a  domestic 

159 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

god.  The  floor  is  composed  of  a  rich  mosaic  of 
the  rarest  marbles,  agate,  jasper  and  porphyry; 
it  looks  to  the  marble  fountain  and  the  snow 
white  columns,  whose  etablatures  strew  the  floor 
of  the  portico  they  supported.  The  houses  have 
only  one  story,  and  the  apartments,  tho  not  large, 
are  very  lofty.  A  great  advantage  results  from 
this,  wholly  unknown  in  our  cities. 

The  public  buildings,  whose  ruins  are  now 
forests  as  it  were  of  white  fluted  columns,  and 
which  then  supported  entablatures  loaded  with 
sculpture,  were  seen  on  all  sides  over  the  roofs 
of  the  houses.  This  was  the  excellence  of  the 
ancients:  their  private  expenses  were  compara- 
tively moderate ;  the  dwelling  of  one  of  the  chief 
senators  of  Pompeii  is  elegant  indeed,  and 
adorned  with  the  most  beautiful  specimens  of 
art,  but  small.  But  their  public  buildings  are 
everywhere  marked  by  the  bold  and  grand  designs 
of  an  unsparing  magnificence.  In  the  little  town 
of  Pompeii  (it  contained  about  twenty  thousand 
inhabitants)  it  is  wonderful  to  see  the  number 
and  grandeur  of  their  public  buildings. 

Another  advantage,  too,  is  that  in  the  present 
case  the  glorious  scenery  around  is  not  shut  out, 
and  that  unlike  the  inhabitants  of  the  Cimmerian 
ravines  of  modern  cities,  the  ancient  Pompeiian 
could  contemplate  the  clouds  and  the  lamps  of 
heaven;  could  see  the  moon  rise  high  behind 
Vesuvius,  and  tho  sun  set  in  the  sea,  tremulous 
with  an  atmosphere  of  golden  vapor,  below  Inar- 
nine  and  Misenum. 

We  next  saw  the  temples.  Of  the  temple  of 
y^seulapius  little  remains  but  an  altar  of  black 
stone,  adorned  with  a  cornice  imitating  the  scales 

160 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


of  a  serpent.  His  statue  in  terra-cotta  "was  found 
in  the  cell.  The  temple  of  Isis  is  more  perfect. 
It  is  suxTounded  by  a  portico  of  fluted  columns. 
and  iu  the  area  around  it  are  two  altars,  and 
many  ceppi  for  statues;  and  a  little  chapel  of 
white  stucco,  as  hard  as  stono,  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite proportions;  its  panels  are  adorned  with 
figures  in  bas-relief,  slightly  indicated,  but  of 
workmanship  the  most  delicate  that  can  be  con- 
ceived. They  are  Egyptian  subjects  executed  by 
a  Greek  artist,  who  has  humanized  all  the  un- 
natural extravagance  of  the  original  conception 
into  the  supernatural  loveliness  of  his  country's 
genius.  They  scarcely  touch  the  ground  with 
their  feet,  and  their  wind  uplifted  robes  seem 
in  the  place  of  wings.  The  temple  in  the  midst, 
raised  on  a  high  platform  -^nd  approached  by 
steps,  was  decorated  with  exquisite  paintings, 
some  of  which  we  saw  in  tke  museum  at  PorticaL 
It  is  small,  of  the  same  vaateiials  as  the  chapel, 
with  a  pavement  of  mosaic,  and  fluted  Ionic 
columns  of  white  stucco,  so  white  that  it  dazzles 
yoa  to  look  at  it. 

Thence  through  other  porticoes  and  labyrinths 
of  walls  and  columns,  some  broken,  some  entire, 
their  entablatures  strewed  under  them.  The  tem- 
ple of  Jupiter,  of  Venus,  and  another  temple, 
the  Tribunal,  and  the  hall  of  public  justice  with 
the  forests  of  lofty  columns,  surround  the  Forujn. 
Two  pedestals  or  altars  of  an  enormous  size 
(for  whether  they  were  the  altars  of  ihe  temple 
of  Venus  before  which  they  stand  the  guide  could 
not  tell)  occupy  the  lower  ei\d  of  the  Forum. 
At  the  upper  end,  supported  on  an  elevated  plat- 
form, stands  the  temple  of  Jupiter.     Under  the 

V— 11  161 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

colonnade  of  its  portico  we  sat  and  pulled  out 
our  oranges  and  figs  and  bread  (sorry  fare,  you 
■will  say)  and  started  to  eat.  Here  was  a  mag- 
nificent spectacle.  Above  and  between  the  naul- 
titudinous  shafts  of  the  sunshiny  columns  was 
seen  the  sea,  reflecting  the  purple  heaven  of  noon 
above  it,  and  supporting,  as  it  were,  on  its  lips 
the  dark  lofty  mountains  of  Sorrento,  of  a  blue 
indescribably  deep,  and  tinged  toward  their  sum- 
mits with  streaks  of  new  fallen  snow.  Between 
was  one  small  green  island.  To  the  right  was 
CapresD,  Inarnine,  Prochyta,  and  Misenum.  Be- 
hind was  the  single  summit  of  Vesuvius,  rolling 
forth  volumes  of  thick  white  smoke,  whose  foam- 
like column  was  sometimes  darted  into  the  clear 
dark  sky  and  fell  in  little  sti'eaks  along  the  wind. 
Between  Vesuvius  and  the  nearer  mountains,  as 
through  a  chasm,  was  seen  the  main  line  of  the 
loftiest  Apenines  to  the  east.  The  day  was 
radiated  and  warm.  Every  now  and  then  we 
heard  the  subterranean  thunder  of  Vesuvius;  its 
distant  and  deep  peals  seem  to  shake  the  very 
air  and  light  of  day,  w'hich  interpenetrated  our 
frames  with  a  sudden  and  tremendous  sound. 
The  scene  was  what  the  Greeks  beheld  (Pompeii, 
you  know,  was  a  Greek  city).  They  lived  in 
harmony  with  nature,  and  the  interstices  of  their 
incomparable  columns  were  portals,  as  it  were, 
to  admit  the  spirit  of  beauty  which  animates  this 
glorious  universe  to  visit  those  whom  it  inspired. 
If  such  is  Pompeii,  what  was  Athens?  What 
scene  was  exhibited  from  the  Acropolis,  the  Par- 
thenon, and  the  temples  of  Hercules,  and  Theseus 
and  the  Winds?  The  islands  and  the  iEgean 
Sea,  the  mountains  of  Argolis,  and  the  peaks  of 

162 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


Pindus  and  Olympus,  vith  the  darkness  of  the 
Boeotian  forests  interspersed? 

From  the  Forum  we  went  to  another  public 
place,  a  triangular  portico  half  enclosing  the 
ruins  of  an  enormous  temple.  It  is  built  on  the 
edge  of  the  hill  overlooking  the  sea.  The  black 
point  is  the  temple.  In  the  apex  of  the  triangle 
stand  an  altar  and  a  fountain,  and  before  the 
altar  once  stood  the  statue  of  the  builder  of  the 
portico. 

Returning  hence  and  following  the  consular 
road,  we  came  to  the  eastern  gate  of  the  city. 
The  walls  are  of  enormous  strength  and  inclose 
a  space  of  three  miles.  On  each  side  of  the  wall 
beyond  the  gate  are  built  the  tombs.  How  unlike 
ours!  They  seem  not  so  much  hiding-places  for 
that  which  must  decay  as  voluptuous  chambers 
of  immortal  spirits,  Thsy  are  of  marble  radi- 
antly white;  and  two  especially  beautiful  are 
loaded  with  exquisite  bas-relief.  On  the  stucco 
wall  that  encloses  them  are  little  emblematic 
figures,  of  a  relief  exceedingly  low,  of  dead  and 
dying  animals  and  little  winged  genii,  and  female 
forms  bending  in  groups  in  some  funereal  office. 
The  higher  reliefs  represent,  one  a  nautical  and 
the  other  a  Bacchanalian  one.  Within  the  cell 
stand  the  crematory  urns,  sometimes  one,  some- 
times more.  It  is  said  that  paintings  were  found 
within;  which  are  now,  as  has  been  everything 
movable  in  Pompeii,  removed  and  scattered  about 
in  royal  museums.  These  tombs  were  the  most 
impressive  things  of  all.  The  wild  woods  sur- 
round them  on  either  side;  and  along  the  broad 
stones  of  the  paved  road  which  divides  them. 
fOM  hear  the  late  leaves  of  autumn  shiver  and 

163 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

rustle  in  the  Btream  of  the  inconstant  wind,  as 
it  "were  like  the  steps  of  ghosts.  The  radiance 
and  magnificence  of  these  dwellings  of  the  dead, 
the  white  freshness  of  the  scarcely  finished  mar- 
ble, the  impassioned  or  imaginative  life  of  thg 
figures  which  adorn  them,  contrast  strangely  with 
the  simplicity  of  the  houses  of  those  who  were 
living  when  Vesuvius  overwhelmed  them. 

I  have  forgotten  the  amphitheater,  which  is 
of  great  magnitude  tho  inferior  to  the  Coliseum. 

I  now  understand  why  the  Greeks  were  such 
great  poets;  and  above  all,  I  can  account,  it 
se^ms  to  me,  for  the  harmony,  the  unity,  the 
perfection,  the  uniform  excellence  of  all  their 
works  of  art.  They  lived  in  a  perpetual  com- 
merce with  external  nature,  and  nourished  them- 
selves upon  the  spirits  of  its  forms.  Their  the- 
aters were  all  open  to  the  mountains  of  the  sky. 
Their  columns,  the  ideal  type  of  a  sacred  forest, 
with  its  roof  of  interwoven  tracery,  admitted  the 
light  and  wind.  The  odor  and  the  freshness  of 
the  country  penetrated  the  cities.  Their  temples 
were  mostly  unparthaic;  and  the  flying  clouds, 
the  stars  and  the  deep  sky  were  seen  above. 
Oh,  but  for  that  series  of  wretched  wars  which 
terminated  in  the  Roman  conquest  of  the  world  j 
but  for  the  Christian  religion  which  put  the 
finishing  stroke  on  the  ancient  system;  but  for 
those  changes  that  conducted  Athens  to  its  ruin 
—to  what  an  eminence  might  not  himianity  have 
arrived ! 


164 


GEORGE  GROTE 

Bom  io  1794,  died  in  1871;  educated  at  the  Charterhouse; 
entered  bis  father's  bank  in  1810  and  devoted  himself 
thenceforth  to  blinking;  elected  to  Parliament  in  1838, 
eerving  until  1841;  publishtd  his  "History  of  Greece"  in 
1846-58;  »Totc  also  "Plato  and  Other  Companions  of  Soc- 
rates,"  which  was  published  in  1866. 


THE  MUTILATION  OF  THE  HERM-ffi» 

After  between  two  and  three  months  of  active 
preparations,  the  expedition '  was  almost  ready 
to  start,  when  an  event  happened  which  fatally 
poisoned  the  prevalent  cheerfulness  of  the  oity. 
This  was  the  mntilatioi  of  the  Herxnae,  one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  events  in  all  Grecian  history. 

The  Hermro,  or  half-statues  of  the  god  Hermes, 
were  blocks  of  marble  about  the  height  of  the 

•From  Chapter  LVIII  of  the  "History  of  Greece."  Altho 
several  hiEtories  of  Greece  have  been  written  since  Grote's, 
his  work  "still  remains  in  some  retpects  the  greatest,"  says 
A.  D.  Lindbay,  his  latest  editor.  Grote,  in  a  sense,  stands 
to  Greece  as  Gibbon  to  the  Roman  Empire.  He  depended 
mainly  on  tiie  literary  sources,  archa;ology  in  his  day 
having  done  little  to  widen  knowledge.  His  work  is  there- 
fore defective  in  its  earlier  parts,  but  from  the  sixth  cen« 
tury  down,  whr'n  Iho  literary  sources  begin,  he  is  "still 
almost  as  valuable   as  ever." 

•The  expedition  to  Sicily  of  wWch,  as  recorded  by  Thn- 
cydides,  two  notable  incidents  are  given  In  Volume  I  of 
this  collection. 

165 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

human  figure.  The  upper  part  was  cut  into  a 
head,  face,  neck,  and  bust;  the  lower  part  was 
left  as  a  quadrangular  pillar,  broad  at  the  base, 
without  arms,  body,  or  legs,  but  with  the  sig- 
nificant mark  of  the  male  sex  in  front.  They 
were  distributed  in  great  numbers  throughout 
Athens,  and  always  in  the  most  conspicuous 
situations;  standing  beside  the  outer  doors  of 
private  houses  as  well  as  of  temples — near  the 
most  frequented  porticoes — at  the  intersection  of 
crossways — in  the  public  agora.  They  were  thus 
present  to  the  eye  of  every  Athenian  in  all  his 
acts  of  intercommunion,  either  for  business  or 
pleasure,  with  his  fellow  citizens.  The  religious 
feeling  of  the  Greeks  considered  the  god  to  be 
planted,  or  domieiUated,  where  his  statue  stood, 
so  that  the  companionship,  sjTnpathy,  and  guar- 
dianship of  Hermes  became  associated  with  most 
of  the  manifestations  of  conjunct  life  at  Athens, 
political,  social,  commercial,  or  gymnastic.  More- 
over the  quadrangular  fashion  of  these  statues, 
employed  occasionally  for  other  gods  besides 
Hermes,  was  a  most  ancient  relic  handed  down 
from  the  primitive  rudeness  of  Pelasgian  work- 
manship; and  was  popular  in  Arcadia,  as  well 
as  peculiarly  frequent  in  Athens. 

About  the  end  of  May  415  B.C.,  in  the  course 
of  one  and  the  same  night,  all  these  Hermse,  one 
of  the  most  peculiar  marks  of  the  city,  were 
mutilated  by  unknown  hands.  Their  character- 
istic features  were  knocked  off  or  leveled,  so  that 
nothing  was  left  except  a  mass  of  stone  with  no 
resemblance  to  humanity  or  deity.  All  were  thus 
dealt  with  in  the  same  way,  save  and  except 
very  few;  nay,  Andocides  afiirms  (and  I  incline 

166 


GEORGE  GROTE 


to  believe  him)  tliat  there  was  but  oue  which 
escaped  unharmed. 

It  is  of  course  impossible  for  any  one  to  sym- 
pathize fully  with  the  feelings  of  a  reli^on  not 
his  own ;  indeed,  the  sentiment  with  which,  in  the 
case  of  persons  of  different  creed,  each  regards 
the  strong  emotions  growing  out  of  causes  pecul- 
iar to  the  other — is  usually  one  of  surprize  that 
such  trifles  and  absurdities  can  occasion  any 
serious  distress  or  excitement.  But  if  we  take 
that  reasonable  pains,  which  is  incumbent  on 
those  who  study  the  history  of  Greece,  to  realize 
in  our  minds  the  religious  and  political  associa- 
tions of  the  Athenians — noted  in  ancient  times 
for  their  superior  piety,  as  well  as  for  their 
accuracy  and  magnificence  about  the  visible  mon- 
uments embodying  that  feeling — we  shall  in  part 
comprehend  the  intensity  of  mingled  dismay, 
terror,  and  wrath  which  beset  the  public  mind 
on  the  morning  after  this  nocturnal  sacrilege, 
alike  unforeseen  and  unparalleled.  Amidst  all 
the  ruin  and  impoverishment  which  had  been 
inflicted  by  the  Persian  invasion  of  Attica,  there 
was  nothing  which  was  so  profoundly  felt  or  so 
long  remembered  as  the  deliberate  burning  of 
the  statues  and  temple  of  the  gods. 

If  we  coi;ld  imagine  the  excitement  of  a 
Spanish  or  Italian  town,  on  finding  that  all  the 
images  of  the  Virgin  had  been  defaced  during  the 
same  night,  we  should  have  a  parallel  to  what 
was  now  felt  at  Athens — where  religious  associa- 
tions and  persons  were  far  more  intimately  allied 
with  all  civil  acts  and  wiih  all  the  proceedings 
of  every-day  life — where,  too,  the  god  and  his 
efficiency  were  more  forcibly  localized,  as  well 


167 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

as  identified  with  the  presence  and  keeping  of 
the  statue.  To  the  Athenians,  V7hen  they  went 
forth  on  the  following  morning,  each  man  seeing 
the  divine  guardian  at  his  doorway  dishonored 
and  defaced,  and  each  man  gradually  coming  to 
know  that  the  devastation  was  general — it  would 
seem  that  the  town  had  become,  as  it  were,  god- 
less— that  the  streets,  the  market-place,  the  por- 
ticoes were  robbed  of  their  diWne  protectors, 
and  what  was  worse  still,  that  these  protectors, 
having  been  grossly  insulted,  carried  away  with 
them  alienated  sentiments — wrathful  and  vindic- 
tive instead  of  tutelary  and  sjTnpathizing.  It 
■was  on  the  protection  of  the  gods  that  all  their 
political  constitution  as  well  as  the  blessings 
of  civil  life  depended;  insomuch  that  the  curses 
of  the  gods  were  habitually  invoked  as  sanction 
and  punishment  for  grave  offenses,  political  as 
well  as  others;  an  extension  and  generalization 
of  the  feeling  still  attached  to  the  judicial  oath. 
This  was,  in  the  minds  of  the  people  of  Athens, 
a  sincere  and  literal  cou\detion — not  simply  a 
form  of  spyeech  to  be  pronounced  in  prayers  and 
public  harangues,  without  being  ever  construed 
as  a  reality  in  calculating  consequences  and  de- 
termining practical  measures.  Accordingly,  they 
drew  from  the  mutilation  of  the  Herm»  the  in- 
ference, not  less  natural  than  terrifying,  that 
heavy  public  misfortune  was  impending  over  the 
city,  and  that  the  political  constitution  to  which 
they  were  attached  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  subverted. 

Such  was  the  mj^terious  incident  which  broke 
in  upon  the  eager  and  bustling  movement  of 
Athens,  a  few  days  before  the  Sicilian  expedition 

168 


GEORGE  GROTE 


WS13  startiag.  In  reference  to  that  expedition, 
it  was  taken  to  heart  as  a  most  depressing  omen. 
It  would  doubtless  have  been  so  interpreted,  had 
it  been  a  mere  undesigned  accident  happening 
to  any  venerated  religious  object — just  as  we  are 
told  that  similar  misgivings  were  occasioned  by 
the  occurrence,  about  this  same  time,  of  the 
melancholy  festival  of  the  Adouia,  wherein  the 
women  loudly  bewailed  the  untimely  death  of 
Adonis.  The  mutilation  of  the  Hermee,  however, 
was  something  much  more  ominous  than  the  worst 
accident.  It  proclaimed  itself  as  the  deliberate 
act  of  organized  conspirators,  not  inconsiderable 
in  number,  whose  names  and  final  purpose  were 
indeed  unknown,  but  who  had  begun  by  com- 
mitting sacrilege  of  a  character  flagrant  and 
unheard  of.  For  intentional  mutilation  of  ^  a 
public  and  sacred  statue,  where  the  material 
afforded  no  temptation  to  plunder,  is  a  case^  to 
which  we  know  no  parallel:  much  more,  mutila- 
tion by  wholesale — spread  by  one  band  and  in 
one  night  throughout  an  entire  city.  Tho  neither 
the  parties  concerned,  nor  their  pui-poses,  were 
ever  more  than  partially  made  out,  the  concert 
and  conspiracy  itself  is  unquestionable. 

It  seems  probable,  as  far  as  we  can  form  an 
opinion,  that  the  conspirators  had  two  objacts, 
perhaps  some  of  them  one  and  some  the  other: 
—to  ruin  Aleibiades' —  to  frustrate  or  delay  th« 
expedition-  How  they  pursued  the  former  pur- 
pose, will  be  presently  seen:  toward  the  latter, 
nothing  was  ostensibly  done,  but  the  position  of 

•Alcibiadea  vraa  a  leader  of  the  party  which  had  favored 
the  expedition,  and  which  prevailed  at  lust  over  bitter  o^ 
poBition. 

189 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

Teukrus  and  other  metics  implicated  renders  it 
more  likely  that  they  were  influenced  by  sym- 
pathies with  Corinth  and  Megara,  prompting 
them  to  intercept  an  expedition  which  was  sup- 
posed to  promise  great  triumphs  to  Athens — 
rather  than  corrupted  by  the  violent  antipathies 
of  intestine  politics.  Indeed  the  two  objects  were 
intimately  connected  with  each  other;  for  the 
prosecution  of  the  enterprise,  while  full  of  pros- 
pective conquest  to  Athens,  was  yet  more  preg- 
nant with  future  power  and  wealth  to  Alcibiades 
himself.  Such  chances  would  disappear  if  the 
expedition  could  be  prevented;  nor  was  it  at  all 
impossible  that  the  Athenians,  under  the  intense 
impression  of  religious  terror  consequent  on  the 
mutilation  of  the  Hermae,  might  throw  up  the 
scheme  altogether.  Especially  Nicias,  exquisitely 
sensitive  in  his  own  religious  conscience,  and 
never  hearty  in  his  wish  for  going  (a  fact  per- 
fectly known  to  the  enemy),  would  hasten  to 
consult  his  prophets,  and  might  reasonably  be 
expected  to  renew  his  opposition  on  the  fresh 
ground  offered  to  him,  or  at  least  to  claim  delay 
until  the  offended  gods  should  have  been  ap- 
peased. We  may  judge  how  much  such  a  pro- 
ceeding was  in  the  line  of  his  character  and  of 
the  Athenian  character,  when  we  find  him,  two 
years  afterward,  with  the  full  concurrence  of  his 
soldiers,  actually  sacrificing  the  last  opportunity 
of  safe  retreat  for  the  half-ruined  Athenian  army 
in  Sicily,  and  refusing  even  to  allow  the  prop- 
osition to  be  debated,  in  consequence  of  an 
eclipse  of  the  moon;  and  when  we  reflect  that 
Greeks  frequently  renounced  public  designs  if  an 
earthquake  happened  before  the  execution. 

170 


GEORGE  GROTE 


But  tho  the  chance  of  setting  aside  the  expedi- 
tion altogether  might  reasonably  enter  into  the 
plans  of  the  conspirators,  as  a  likely  consequence 
of  the  intense  shock  inflicted  on  the  religious 
mind  of  Athens,  and  especially  of  Nicias — this 
calculation  was  not  realized.  Probably  matters 
had  already  proceeded  too  far  even  for  Nicias 
to  recede.  Notice  had  been  sent  around  to  all 
the  allies;  forces  were  already  on  their  way  to  the 
rendezvous  at  Corcyra;  at  Argeian  and  Man- 
tineian  allies  were  arriving  at  Piraeus  to  embark. 
So  much  the  more  eagerly  did  the  conspirators 
proceed  in  that  which  I  have  stated  as  the  other 
part  of  their  probable  plan;  to  work  that  exag- 
gerated religious  terror,  which  they  had  them- 
selves artificially  brought  about,  for  the  ruin  of 
Alcibiades. 

Few  men  in  Athens  either  had,  or  deserved  to 
have,  a  gi-eater  number  of  enemies,  political  as 
well  as  private,  than  Alcibiades;  many  of  them 
being  among  the  highest  citizens,  whom  he  of- 
fended by  his  insolence,  and  whose  liturgies  and 
other  customary  exhibitions  he  outshone  by  his 
reckless  expenditure.  His  importance  had  been 
already  so  much  increased,  and  threatened  to  be 
so  much  more  increased,  by  the  Sicilian  enter- 
prise, that  they  no  longer  observed  any  measures 
in  compassing  his  ruin.  That  which  the  mutila- 
tors of  the  Hermae  seemed  to  have  doliberately 
planned  his  other  enemies  were  ready  to  turn 
to  profit. 


171 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

n 

IF  ALEXANDER  HAD  LIVED  ^ 

The  death  of  Alexander,  thus  suddenly  cut 
«ff  by  a  fever  in  the  plenitude  of  health,  vigor, 
and  aspirations,  was  an  event  impressive  as  well 
as  important  in  the  highest  possible  degree,  to 
his  eoutemporaiies  far  and  near.  When  the  first 
report  of  it  was  brought  to  Athens,  the  orator 
Demades  exclaimed,  *'It  can  not  be  true:  if 
Alexander  were  dead,  the  whole  habitable  world 
would  have  smelt  of  his  carcass."  This  coarse, 
but  emphatic  comparison,  illustrates  the  imme- 
diate, powerful,  and  wide-reaching  impression 
produced  by  the  sudden  extinction  of  the  great 
conqueror.  It  was  felt  by  each  of  the  many 
remote  envoys  who  had  so  recently  come  to  pi'o- 
pitiate  this  far-shooting  Apollo — by  every  man 
among  the  nations  who  had  sent  these  envoys—' 
throughout  Europe,  Asia,  and  Afiiea,  as  then 
known — to  affect  either  his  actual  condition  or 
his  probable  future. 

The  first  gi-owth  and  development  of  Macedo- 
nia, during  the  twenty-two  years  preceding  the 
battle  of  Chseroneia,*  from  an  embarrassed  sec- 
oudai'y  state  into  the  first  of  all  known  powers, 

•Prom  Chapter  XCIV  of  the  "History  of  Greece."  Alex- 
ander'* dtnth,  which  took  place  at  Babylon  in  323  B.O^ 
■wa»  due  to  a  fever,  which  foHowed  a  carouse  and  lasted 
fwelv*   days. 

6  This  battto  was  fought  in  388  B.O.  'between  Philip  of 
Maceden,  Alexander  the  Great's  father,  and  the  tombined 
forces   of   Boeotia    and   Athens. 

172 


GEORGE  GROTE 


had  excited  the  astoaishmont  of  contemporaries, 
and  admiratioa  for  Philip's  organizing  genius. 
But  the  achievements  of  Alexander,  during  his 
twelve  years  of  reign,  throwing  Philip  into  the 
shade,  had  been  on  a  scale  so  muoh  grander-  and 
vaster,  and  so  completely  without  serious  reverse 
or  even  interruption,  as  to  transcend  the  meas- 
ure, not  only  of  human  exi>ectation,  but  almost 
of  human  belief.  The  Great  King  (as  the  King 
of  Persia  was  called  by  excellence)  was,  and  had 
long  been,  the  type  of  worldly  power  and  felicity, 
even  down  to  the  time  when  Alexander  crossed 
the  Hellespont.  Within  four  years  and  three 
months  from  this  event,  by  one  stupendous  defeat 
after  another,  Darius  had  lost  all  his  Western 
empire,  and  had  become  a  fngitive  eastward  of 
the  Caspian  Gates,  escaping  captivity  at  the 
hands  of  Alexander  only  to  perish  by  those  of 
the  satrap  Bessus.  All  antecedent  historieal  par- 
allels— the  ruin  and  captivity  of  the  Lydian  Croe- 
sus, the  expulsion  and  mean  life  of  the  Syracu- 
san  Dionysius,  both  of  them  impressive  examples 
of  the  mutability  of  human  condition — sank  into 
trifles  compared  with  the  overthrow  of  this  tow» 
ering  Persian  colossus.  The  orator  ^schines 
exprest  the  genuine  sentiment  of  a  Gi-ecian  speo- 
tator  when  he  exclaimed  (in  a  speech  delivered 
at  Athens  shortly  before  the  death  of  Darius), 
''What  is  there  among  the  list  of  strange  and 
unexpected  events  that  has  not  occurred  in  our 
time?  Our  lives  have  transcended  the  limits  of 
humanity;  we  are  born  to  serve  as  a  theme  for 
incredible  tales  to  posterity.  Is  not  the  Persian 
king — who  dug  through  Athos  and  bridged  the 
Hellespont — who  demanded  earth  and  water  from 

173 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

the  Greeks — who  dared  to  proclaim  himself  in 
public  epistles  master  of  all  mankind  from  the 
rising  to  the  setting  sun — is  not  he  now  strug- 
gling to  the  last,  not  for  dominion  over  others, 
but  for  the  safety  of  his  own  person?" 

Such  were  the  sentiments  excited  by  Alexan- 
der's career  even  in  the  middle  of  330  b.o.,  more 
than  seven  years  before  his  death.  Diuing  the 
following  seven  years  his  additional  achieve- 
ments had  carried  astonishment  yet  further.  He 
had  mastered,  in  defiance  of  fatigue,  hardship, 
and  combat,  not  merely  all  the  eastern  half  of 
the  Persian  empire,  but  unknown  Indian  regions 
beyond  its  easternmost  limits.  Besides  Macedonia, 
Greece,  and  Thrace,  he  possest  all  that  immense 
treasure  and  military  force  which  had  once  ren- 
derd  the  Great  Bang  so  formidable.  By  no  con- 
temporary man  had  any  such  power  ever  been 
known  or  conceived.  With  the  turn  of  imagina- 
tion then  prevalent,  many  were  doubtless  dis- 
posed to  take  hira  for  a  god  on  earth,  as  Grecian 
spectators  had  once  supposed  with  regard  to 
Xerxes,  when  they  beheld  the  innumerable  Per- 
sian host  crossing  the  Hellespont. 

Exalted  to  this  prodigious  grandeur,  Alexander 
was  at  the  time  of  his  death  little  more  than 
thirty-two  years  old — the  age  at  which  a  citizen 
of  Athens  was  growing  into  important  com- 
mands; ten  years  less  than  the  age  for  a  consul 
at  Rome;  two  years  younger  than  the  age  at 
which  Timour  first  acquired  the  crown,  and  began 
his  foreign  conquests.  His  extraordinary  bodily 
powers  were  unabated;  he  had  agguired  a  large 
stock  of  military  experience;  and,  what  was  still 
more  important,  his  appetite  for  further  conquest 

174 


GEORGE  GROTE 


was  as  voracious,  and  his  readiness  to  purchase 
it  at  the  largest  cost  of  toil  or  danger  as  com- 
plete, as  it  had  been  when  he  first  crossed  the 
Hellespont.  Great  as  his  past  career  had  been, 
his  future  achievements,  with  such  increased 
means  and  experience,  were  likely  to  be  yet 
greater.  His  ambition  would  have  been  satis- 
fied with  nothing  less  than  the  conquest  of  the 
whole  habitable  world  as  then  known;  and  if 
his  life  had  been  prolonged,  he  would  probably 
have  accomplished  it.  Nowhere  (so  far  as  our 
knowledge  reaches)  did  there  reside  any  military 
power  capable  of  making  head  against  him;  nor 
were  his  soldiers,  when  he  commanded  them, 
daunted  or  baffled  by  any  extremity  of  cold,  heat, 
or  fatigue.  The  patriotic  feelings  of  Livy  dispose 
him  to  maintain  that  Alexander,  had  he  invaded 
Italy  and  assailed  Romans  or  Samnltes,  would 
have  failed  and  perished  like  his  relative  Alex- 
ander of  Epirus.  But  this  conclusion  can  not 
be  accepted.  If  we  grant  the  courage  and  dis- 
cipline of  the  Roman  infantry  to  have  been  equal 
to  the  best  infantry  of  Alexander's  army,  the 
same  can  not  be  said  of  the  Roman  cavalry  as 
compared  with  the  Macedonian  companions. 
Still  less  is  it  likely  that  a  Roman  Consul,  an- 
nually changed,  would  have  been  found  a  match 
for  Alexander  in  military  genius  and  combina- 
tions; nor,  even  if  personally  equal,  would  he 
have  possest  the  same  variety  of  troops  and  arms, 
each  effective  in  its  separate  w'aj',  and  all  con- 
spiring to  one  common  purpose — nor  the  same 
unbounded  influence  over  their  minds  in  stimu- 
lating them  to  full  effort.  I  do  not  think  that 
even  the  Romans  could  have  successfully  resisted 


175 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

Alexander  the  Great;  tho  it  is  certain  that  he 
never  throughout  all  his  long  marches  encoun- 
tered such  enemies  as  thsy,  nor  even  such  as 
Samnites  and  Lueanians — combining  courage,  p* 
triotism,  discipline,  with  effective  arms  both  for 
defense  and  for  close  oombat. 

Among  all  the  qualities  which  go  to  constitute 
the  highest  military  excellence,  either  as  a  gen- 
eral or  as  a  soldier,  none  was  •wanting  in  the 
character  of  Alexander.  Together  with  his  own 
chivalrous  courage — sometimes  indeed  both  ex- 
cessive and  unseasonable,  so  as  to  form  the  only 
military  defect  which  can  fairly  be  imputed  to 
him — we  trace  in  all  his  operations  the  most 
careful  dispositions  taken  beforehand,  vigilant 
precaution  in  guarding  against  possible  reverse, 
and  abundant  resource  in  adapting  himself  to 
new  contingencies.  Amidst  constant  success, 
these  precautionary  combinations  were  never  dis- 
continued. His  achievements  are  the  earliest 
recorded  evidence  of  scientific  military  organiza- 
tion on  a  large  scale,  and  of  its  overwhelming 
effects.  Alexander  overawes  the  imagination 
more  than  any  other  personage  of  antiquity,  by 
the  matchless  development  of  all  that  constitutes 
effective  force — as  an  individual  warrior,  and  as 
organizer  and  leader  of  armed  masses;  not  mere- 
ly the  blind  impetuosity  ascribed  by  Homer  to 
Ares,  but  also  the  intelligent,  methodized,  and 
all-subduing  compression  which  he  personifies  in 
Athene.  But  all  his  great  qualities  were  fit  for 
use  only  against  enemies:  in  which  category  in- 
deed were  numbered  all  mankind,  known  and 
unknown,  except  those  who  chose  to  submit  to 
him.    In  his  Indian  campaigns,  amidst  tribes  of 

176 


GEORGE  GROTE 


utter  strangers,  we  perceive  that  not  only  those 
who  stand  on  tlieir  defense,  but  also  those  who 
abandon  their  property  and  flee  to  the  mountains, 
are  alike  pursued  and  slaughtered. 

Apart  from  the  transcendent  merits  of  Alex- 
ander as  a  soldier  and  a  general,  some  authors 
g^ve  him  credit  for  grand  and  beneficent  views 
on  the  subject  of  imperial  government,  and  for 
intentions  highly  favorable  to  the  improvement 
of  mankind.  I  see  no  ground  for  adopting  this 
opinion.  As  far  as  we  can  venture  to  anticipate 
what  would  have  been  Alexander's  future,  we 
see  nothing  in  prospect  except  years  of  ever- 
repeated  aggression  and  conquest,  not  to  be  con- 
cluded until  he  had  traversed  and  subjugated  all 
the  inhabited  globe.  The  acquisition  of  universal 
dominion — conceived  not  metaphorically,  but  lit- 
erallj',  and  conceived  with  greater  facility  in 
consequence  of  the  imperfect  geographical  knowl- 
edge of  the  time—was  the  master-passion  of  his 
soul.  At  the  moment  of  his  death,  he  was  com- 
mencing fresh  aggression  in  the  south  against 
the  Arabians,  to  an  indefinite  extent ;  while  his 
vast  projects  against  the  western  tribes  in  Africa 
and  Europe,  as  far  as  the  Pillars  of  Hercules, 
were  consigrned  in  the  orders  and  memoranda 
confidentially  communicated  to  Kraterus.  Italy, 
Gaul,  and  Spain  would  have  been  sue<}eswvely  at- 
tacked and  conquered;  the  enterprises  proposed 
to  him  when  in  Bactria  by  the  Chorasmian  prince 
Pharasmanes,  but  postponed  tb«n  until  a  moi'e 
convenient  season,  would  have  been  next  taken 
up,  and  h9  would  have  marched  from  the  Danube 
northward  round  the  Euxine  and  Pains  Mseotis  * 

•The  Sea  of  Azoflf  in  ancient  times  bore  this  name 

V— 12  177 


THE   BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

against  the  Scythians  and  the  tribes  of  the  Cau- 
casus.   There  remained,  moreover,  the  Asiatic  re- 
gions east  of  the  Hyphasis,  which  his  soldiers 
had  refused  to  enter  upon,  but  which  he  certainly 
would  have  invaded  at  a  future  opportunity,  were 
it   only   to    efface    the   poignant    humiliation    of 
having   been    compelled    to    relinquish    his    pro- 
claimed purpose.     Tho  this  sounds  like  romance 
and   hyperbole,   it   was   nothing   more   than   the 
real  insatiate  aspiration  of  Alexander,  who  looked 
upon  every  new  acquisition  mainly  as  a  capital 
for  acquiring  more.     "You  are  a  man  like  all  of 
us,  Alexander"  (said  the  naked  Indian  to  him), 
* '  except  that  you  abandon  your  home  like  a  med- 
dlesome  destroyer,   to   invade   the   most   distant 
regions;    enduring    hardship    yourself,    and    in- 
flicting hardship   upon  others."     Now,  how   an 
empire  thus  boundless  and  heterogeneous,  such 
as  no  prince  has  ever  yet  realized,  could  have 
been  administered  with  any  superior  advantages 
to  subjects,  it  would  be  difficult  to  show.     The 
mere    task    of    acquiring    and    maintaining  —  of 
keeping  satraps  and  tribute-gatherei-s  in  authori- 
ty as  well  as  in  subordination — of  suppressing 
resistances  ever  liable  to  recur  in  regions  distant 
by  months  of  march — would  occupy  the  whole 
life  of  a  world-conqueror,  without  leaving  any 
leisure  for  the  improvements  suited  to  peace  and 
stability,  if  we  give  him  credit  for  such  purposes 
in  theory. 


178 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 

Born  In  179S,  died  !n  1881;  educated  in  Edlnbnr(;h;  school- 
master  at  Kirkcaldy  In  1816;  wrote  for  cyclopedias  in 
Edinburgh;  became  a  private  tutor  In  1822;  visited  London 
and  Paris  in  1824-25;  married  Jane  Welsh  in  1826;  lived 
at  Craigenpultoch  in  1828-34,  settled  at  Cheyne  Row,  Chel- 
sea, London,  in  1834;  elected  Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh 
University  in  1866;  his  "Life  of  Schiller,"  published  in 
1825;  "Sartor  Resarfus"  in  1833,  "The  French  Revolu- 
tion" in  1887,  "Heroes  and  Hero  Worship"  in  1841,  "Oliver 
Cromwell"  In  1845,  "Frederick  the  Great"  in  1858-66. 


CHARLOTTE  CORD AY* 

Nbv'er  was  Republic  One  and  Indivisible  at  a 
lower  ebb.  Amid  dim  ferment,  History  specially 
notices  one  thing:  in  the  lobby  of  the  Maison  da 
I'Intendance,  where  busy  Deputies  are  coming  and 
going,  a  young  Lady  with  an  aged  valet,  taking 
grave  graceful  leave  of  Deputy  Barbaroux.  She 
is  of  stately  Norman  figure:  in  her  tweuty-tifth 
year;  of  beautiful  still  countenance:  her  name 
is  Charlotte  Corday,  heretofore  styled  D'Armans, 
while  Nobility  still  was.  Barbaroux  has  given 
her  a  note  to  Deputy  Duperret, — him  who  once 
drew  his  sword  in  the  effervescence.  Apparently 
she  will  to  Paris  on  some  errand?  ''She  was 
a  Republican  before  the  Revolution,  and  never 
wanted  energy."    A  completeness,  a  decision  is 

•Prom  the   "History   of  the  French   Revolution." 
179 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

>•  »- 

in  thk  fair  female  Fi^ui*e:  **By  energy  she  means 
the  spirit  that  will  prompt  one  to  sacrifice  him- 
wlf  for  his  country."  What  if  she,  this  fair 
young  Charlotte,  had  emerged  from  her  secluded 
Btiliness,  suddenly  like  a  Star;  cruel-lovely,  with 
half-angeM«,  half-demonic  splendor;  to  gleam 
for  a  moment,  and  in  a  moment  be  extinguished; 
to  be  held  in  memory,  so  bright  complete  was 
she,  through  long  centuries ! — Quitting  Cimmerian 
Coalitions  without,  and  the  dim-simmering  twen- 
ty-five million  within,  History  will  look  fixedly 
at  this  one  fair  Apparition  of  a  Charlotte  Cor- 
day;  will  note  whither  Charlotte  moves,  how  the 
little  Life  burns  forth  so  radiant,  then  vanishes 
swallowed  of  the  Night. 

With  Barbaroux's  Note  of  Introduction,  and 
slight  stock  of  luggage,  we  see  Charlotte  on  Tues- 
day the  9th  of  July  seated  in  the  Caen  Diligence, 
with  a  place  for  Paris.  None  takes  farewell  of 
her,  wishes  her  Good- journey :  her  Father  will 
find  a  Kne  left,  signifying  that  she  is  gone  to 
England,  that  he  must  pardon  her,  and  forget 
her.  Th«  drowsy  Diligence  lumbers  along;  amid 
drowsy  talk  of  Politics,  and  praise  of  the  Moun- 
tain ;  in  whieh  she  mingles  not :  all  night,  all  day, 
and  again  all  night.  On  Thursday,  not  long  be- 
fore noon,  we  are  at  the  bridge  of  Neuilly;  here 
is  Paris  with  her  thousand  black  domes,  the  goal 
and  purpose  of  thy  journey!  Arrived  at  the 
Inn  de  la  Providence  in  the  Rue  des  Vieux 
Augustine,  Charlotte  demands  a  room;  hastens 
to  bed;  sleeps  all  afternoon  and  night,  tOl  the 
morrow  morning. 

On  the  morrow  morning,  she  delivers  her  Note 
to  Duperret.    It  relates  to  certain  Family  Papers 

180 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


which  are  in  the  Minister  of  the  Interior's  hands; 
which  a  Nun  at  Caen,  an  old  Convent  friend  of 
Charlotte's,  has  need  of;  which  Duperret  shall 
assist  her  in  getting:  this  then  was  Charlotte's 
errand  to  Paris?  She  has  finished  this,  in  the 
course  of  Friday:  —  yet  says  nothing  of  re- 
turning She  has  seen  and  silently  investigated 
several  things.  The  Convention,  in  bodily  reality, 
she  has  seen;  what  the  Mountain  is  like.  The 
living  physiognomy  of  Marat  *  she  eould  not  see ; 
he  is  sick  at  present,  and  confined  to  home. 

About  eight  on  the  Saturday  morninsf,  she 
purchases  a  large  sheath-knife  in  the  Palais 
Royal;  then  straightway,  in  the  Place  des  Vic- 
toires,  takes  a  hackney-coach:  "To  the  Rue  de 
I'Ecole  de  Medecine,  No.  44."  It  is  the  residence 
of  the  Citoyen  Marat ! — The  Citoyen  Marat  is 
ill,  and  cannot  be  seen ;  which  seems  to  disappoint 
her  much.  Her  business  is  with  Marat,  then? 
Hapless  beautiful  Charlotte;  hapless  squalid 
Marat!  From  Caen  in  the  utmost  West,  from 
Neuchatel  in  the  utmost  East,  they  two  are  draw- 
ing nigh  each  other;  they  two  have,  very  strange- 
ly, business  together. — Charlotte,  returning  to  her 
Inn,  dispatches  a  short  Note  to  Marat;  signifying 
that  she  is  from  Caen,  the  seat  of  rebellion ;  that 
she  desires  earnestly  to  see  him,  and  "will  put 
it  in  his  power  to  do  France  a  great  service." 
No  answer.  Charlotte  writes  another  Note,  still 
more  pressing;  sets  out  with  it  by  coach,  about 
seven  in  the  evening,  herself.    Tired  day-laborers 

•  J«an   Paul  Marat,   a  physicisn,   was  th«  most  radical  of 

the    Jacobins    and    had    been    a    leader    in    the    overthrow  of 

the   Oirondists   on   June   2,    1793.      He   waa   assauin&tod  hf 
Ohariotte  Oorday  on  July  18  of  the  game  yaftc. 


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THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

have  again  finished  their  Week;  huge  Paris  is 
circling  and  simmering,  manifold  according  to 
its  vague  wont;  this  one  fair  Figure  has  decision 
in  it;  drives  straight, — toward  a  purpose. 

It  is  yellow  July  evening,  we  say,  the  13th  of 
the  month;  eve  of  the  Bastille  day, — when  **M. 
Marat,"  four  years  ago,  in  the  crowd  of  the 
Pont  Neuf,  shrewdly  required  of  that  Besenval 
Hussar-party,  which  had  such  friendly  dispositions, 
*'to  dismount,  and  give  up  their  arms,  then"; 
and  became  notable  among  Pati'iot  men.  Four 
years:  what  a  road  he  has  traveled: — and  sits 
now,  about  half-past  seven  of  the  clock,  stewing 
in  slipper-bath;  sore  afflicted;  ill  of  Revolution 
Fever, — of  what  other  malady  this  History  had 
rather  not  name.  Excessively  sick  and  worn, 
poor  man :  with  precisely  eleven-pence-half -penny 
of  ready-money,  in  paper;  with  slipper-bath; 
strong  three-footed  stool  for  writing  on,  the 
while;  and  a  squalid — Washer- woman,  one  may 
call  her:  that  is  his  civic  establishment  in  Med- 
ical-School Street;  thither  and  not  elsewhither 
has  his  road  led  him.  Not  to  the  reign  of 
Brotherhood  and  Perfect  Felicity:  yet  surely  on 
the  way  toward  that? — Hark,  a  rap  again!  A 
musical  woman's  voice,  refusing  to  be  rejected: 
it  is  the  Citoyenne  who  would  do  France  a 
service.  Marat,  recognizing  from  within,  cries. 
Admit   her.     Charlotte   Corday   is   admitted. 

Citoyen  Marat,  I  am  from  Caen  the  seat  of 
rebellion,  and  wished  to  speak  with  you. — Be 
seated,  mon  enfant.  Now  what  are  the  Traitors 
doing  at  Caen?  What  Deputies  are  at  Caen? — 
Charlotte  names  some  Deputies.  "Their  heads 
shall  fall  within  a  fortnight,"  croaks  the  eager 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


People 's-friend,  clutching  his  tablets  to  write: 
Barbarous,  Potion,  writes  he  with  bare  shrunk 
aiin,  turning  aside  in  the  bath:  Petion,  and 
Louvet,  and — Charlotte  has  drawn  her  knife  from 
the  sheath;  plunges  it  with  one  sure  stroke,  into 
the  writer's  heart.  "A  moi  chere  amie  (Help, 
dear)!"  no  more  could  the  Death-choked  say  or 
shriek.  The  helpful  Washer-woman  running  in — 
there  is  no  Friend  of  the  People,  or  Friend  of 
the  Washer-woman,  left;  but  his  life  with  a 
groan  gushes  out,  indignant,  to  the  shades  below! 
And  so  Marat,  People 's-friend,  is  ended;  the 
lone  Stylites  has  got  hurled  down  suddenly  from 
his  pillar — whitherward  He  that  made  him  knows. 
Patriot  Paris  may  sound  triple  and  tenfold,  in 
dole  and  wail;  re-echoed  by  patriot  France;  and 
the  Convention,  "Chabot  pale  with  terror,  de- 
claring that  they  are  to  be  all  assassinated," 
may  decree  him  Pantheon  Honors,  Public  Fu- 
neral, Mirabeau's  dust  making  way  for  him;  and 
Jacobin  Societies,  in  lamentable  oratory,  summing 
up  his  character,  parallel  him  to  One,  whom  they 
think  it  honor  to  call  "the  good  Sans-culotte," — 
whom  we  name  not  here;  also  a  Chapel  may  be 
made,  for  the  urn  that  holds  his  Heart,  in  the 
Place  du  Carrousel;  and  new-born  children  be 
named  Marat;  and  Lago-di-Como  Hawkers  bake 
mountains  of  stucco  into  unbeautiful  Busts;  and 
David  paint  his  Picture,  or  Death-Scene;  and 
such  other  Apotheosis  take  place  as  the  human 
genius,  in  these  circumstances,  can  devise:  but 
Marat  returns  no  more  to  the  light  of  this  Sun. 
One  sole  circumstance  we  have  read  with  clear 
sympathy,  in  the  old  Moniteur  Newspaper:  how 
Marat's  Brother  comes  from  Neuchatel  to  ask 

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THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

of  the  Convention,  "that  the  deceased  Jean-Paul 
Marat's  musket  be  given  to  him."  For  Marat 
too  had  a  brother  and  natural  affections;  and 
was  "wrapped  ouce  in  swaddling-clothes,  and  slept 
safe  in  a  cradle  like  the  rest  of  us.  Ye  children 
of  men ! — A  sister  of  his,  they  say,  lives  still  to 
this  day  in  Paris. 

As  for  Charlotte  Corday,  her  work  is  accom- 
plished; the  recompense  of  it  is  near  and  sure. 
The  chere  amie,  and  the  neighbors  of  the  house, 
flying  at  her,  she  ** overturns  some  movables,** 
intrenches  herself  till  the  gendarmes  arrive;  then, 
quietly  surrenders;  goes  quietly  to  the  Abbaye 
Prison :  she  alone  quiet,  all  Paris  sounding,  in 
wonder,  in  rage  or  admiration,  round  her.  Duper- 
ret  is  put  in  arrest,  on  account  of  her ;  his  Papers 
sealed, — which  may  lead  to  consequences.  Fau- 
chet,  in  like  manner;  though  Fauchet  had  not  so 
much  as  heard  of  her.  Charlotte,  confronted  with 
these  two  Deputies,  praises  the  grave  firmness  of 
Duperret,  censures  the   dejection  of  Fauchet. 

On  Wednesday  morning  the  thronged  Palais 
de  Justice  and  Revolutionary  Tribunal  can  see 
her  face;  beautiful  and  calm:  she  dates  it 
"fourth  day  of  the  Preparation  of  Peace."  A 
strange  murmur  ran  through  the  Hall,  at  sight 
of  her;  you  could  not  say  of  what  character. 
Tinville  has  his  indictments  and  tape-papers :  the 
cutler  of  the  Palais  Royal  will  testify  that  he 
sold  her  the  sheath-knife;  "All  these  details 
are  needless,"  interrupted  Charlotte;  "it  is  I 
that  killed  Marat."  By  whose  instigation? — 
"By  no  one's."  "What  tempted  you  then?" 
"His  crimes.  I  killed  one  man,"  added  she, 
raising   her   voice   extremely    {eodremement) ^   as 

184 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


they  went  on  with  their  questions,  "I  killed  one 
man  to  save  a  hundred  thousand;  a  villain  to 
save  innocents;  a  savage  wild-beaet  to  give  repoBe 
to  my  country.  1  was  a  Republican  before  tho 
Revolution;  I  never  wanted  energy."  There  is 
therefore  nothing  to  be  said.  The  public  gaze? 
astonished :  the  hasty  limners  sketch  her  features, 
Charlotte  not  diRnppro\'ing :  the  men  of  law  pro- 
ceed with  their  formalities.  The  doom  is  Death 
as  a  murderess.  To  her  Advocate  she  gives 
thanks;  in  gentle  phrase,  in  high-flown  classical 
spirit.  To  the  Priest  they  send  her  she  gives 
thanks;  but  neexis  not  any  shriving,  any  ghostly 
or  other  aid  from  him. 

On  this  same  evening,  therefore,  about  half- 
past  seven  o'clock,  from  tlie  gate  of  the  Con- 
ciergerie,  to  a  City  all  on  tip-toe,  the  fatal  Cart 
issues ;  seated  on  it  a  fair  young  creature,  sheeted 
in  red  smock  of  Murderess;  so  beautiful,  serene, 
BO  full  of  life;  journeying  toward  death, — alone 
amid  the  World.  Many  take  off  their  hats, 
saluting  reverently;  for  what  heart  but  must  be 
touched?  Others  growl  and  howl.  Adam  Lux, 
of  Mentz,  declares  that  she  is  greater  than  Bru- 
tus; that  it  were  beautiful  to  die  with  her;  the 
head  of  this  young  man  seems  turned.  At  the 
place  de  la  Revolution,  the  countenance  of  Char- 
lotte wears  the  same  still  smile.  The  execu- 
tioners proceed  to  bind  her  feet;  she  resists, 
thinking  it  meant  as  an  insult;  on  a  word  of 
explanation,  she  submits  with  cheerful  apology. 
As  the  Inst  net,  all  being  now  ready,  they  take 
the  neckerchief  from  her  neck,  a  blush  of  maid- 
enly shame  overspreads  her  fair  face  and  ne«k; 
the  cheeks  were  still   tinged  with  it  when  the 

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THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

executioner  lifted  the  severed  head,  to  show  it 
to  the  people.  **It  is  most  true,"  says  Forster, 
"that  he  struck  the  cheek  insultingly;  for  I  saw 
it  with  my  eyesj  the  Police  imprisoned  him 
for  it.'* 

In  this  manner  have  the  Beautifullest  and  the 
Squalidest  come  in  collision,  and  extinguished 
one  another.  Jean-Paul  Marat  and  Marie-Anne 
Charlotte  Corday  hoth,  suddenly,  are  no  more. 
**Day  of  the  Preparation  of  Peace"?  Alas,  how 
were  peace  possible  or  preparable,  while  for 
example,  the  hearts  of  lovely  Maidens,  in  their 
convent-stillness,  are  dreaming  not  of  Love- 
paradises  and  the  light  of  Life,  but  of  Codrus's- 
sacrifiees  and  Death  well-earned?  That  twenty- 
five  million  hearts  have  got  to  such  temper,  this 
is  the  Anarchy ;  the  soul  of  it  lies  in  this,  whereof 
not  peace  can  be  the  embodiment!  The  death 
of  Marat,  whetting  old  animosities  tenfold,  will 
be  worse  than  any  life.  0  ye  hapless  Two,  mu- 
tually extinctive,  the  Beautiful  and  the  Squalid, 
sleep  ye  well, — in  the  Mother's  bosom  that  bore 
you  both! 

This  is  the  History  of  Charlotte  Corday;  most 
definite,  most  complete:  angelie-demonio :  like  a 
Star! 


186 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


n 

THE  BLESSEDNESS  OF  WORK* 

Fob  there  is  perennial  nobleness,  and  even 
sacredness,  in  Work,  were  he  never  so  benighted, 
forgetful  of  his  high  calling,  there  is  always  hope 
in  a  man  that  actually  and  earnestly  works:  in 
Idleness  alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Work, 
never  so  Mammonish,  mean,  is  in  communication 
with  Nature;  the  real  desire  to  get  Woi'k  done 
will  itself  lead  one  more  and  more  to  truth,  to 
Nature's  appointments  and  regulations,  which  are 
truth. 

The  latest  Gospel  in  this  world  is.  Know  thy 
work  and  do  it.  "Know  thyself":  long  enough 
has  that  poor  "self"  of  thins  tormented  thee; 
thou  wilt  never  get  to  "know"  it,  I  believe! 
Think  it  not  thy  business,  this  of  knowing  thy- 
self; thou  art  an  unknowable  individual:  know 
what  thou  canst  work  at;  and  work  at  it  like 
a  Hercules!    That  will  be  thy  better  plan. 

It  has  been  written,  "An  endless  significance 
lies  in  Work";  a  man  perfects  himself  by  work- 
ing. Foul  jungles  are  cleared  away,  fair  seed- 
fields  rise  instead,  and  stately  cities;  and  withal 
the  man  himself  first  ceases  to  be  jungle  and 
foul  unwholesome  desert  thereby.  Consider  how 
even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  Labor,  the  whole 
Boul  of  a  man  is  composed  into  a  kind  of  real 
harmony  the  instant  he  sets  himself  to  work! 
Doubt,    Desire,    Sorrow,    Remorse,    IndignatioUi 

*From   "Past   and   Present." 
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THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

Despair  itself,  all  these  like  hell-dogs  lie  he- 
leAguering  the  soul  of  the  j>oor  day-worker,  as 
of  every  roan:  but  he  bends  himself  "with  free 
valor  against  his  task,  and  all  these  are  stilled, 
all  these  shrink  murmuring  far  off  into  their 
oevea.  The  man  ia  now  a  man.  The  blessed 
glow  of  Labor  ia  him,  is  it  not  as  purifying  fire, 
wherein  all  poison  is  burnt  up,  and  of  sour  smoke 
Itself  there  is  made  bright  blessed  flame  I 

Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other  way  of 
cultivating  us.  A  formless  Chaos,  once  set  it 
revolving,  grows  round  and  ever  rounder;  ranges 
itself  by  mere  force  of  gravity  into  strata,  sphe- 
rical courses ;  is  no  longer  a  Chaos,  but  a  round 
compacted  World.  What  would  become  of  the 
Earth  did  she  cease  to  revolve?  In  the  poor 
old  Earth,  so  long  as  she  revolves,  all  inequalities, 
irregularities,  disperse  themselves;  all  irregulari- 
ties are  incessantly  becoming  regular.  Hast  thou 
looked  on  the  Potter's  wheel, — one  of  the  ven- 
erablest  objects;  old  as  the  Prophet  Ezekiel  and 
far  older?  Rude  lumps  of  clay,  how  they  spin 
themselves  up,  by  mere  quick  whirling,  into  beau- 
tiful circular  dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  assidu- 
ous Potter,  but  without  his  wheel;  reduced  to 
make  dishes,  or  rather  amorphous  botches,  by 
mere  kneading  and  baking!  Even  such  a  Potter 
were  Destiny,  with  a  human  soul  that  would  rest 
and  lie  at  ease,  that  would  not  work  and  spin! 
Of  an  idle  nnrevolving  man  the  kindest  Destiny, 
like  the  most  assiduous  Potter  without  wheel, 
can  bake  and  knead  nothing  other  than  a  botch; 
let  her  spend  on  him  what  expensive  coloring, 
•what  gilding  and  enameling  she  will,  he  is  but 
a  botch.     Not  a  dish;  no,  a  bulging,  kneaded, 

188 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


crooked,  shambling,  squint-cornered,  amorphous 
botch, — a  mere  enameled  vessel  of  dishonor!  Let 
the  idle  think  of  this. 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work;  let  him 
ask  no  other  blessedness.  He  has  a  work,  a  life- 
purpose;  he  has  found  it,  and  will  follow  it! 
How,  as  a  free-flowing  channel,  dug  and  torn 
by  noble  force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of 
one's  eiristonce,  like  an  ever-deepening  river 
Hiere,  it  runs  and  flows; — draining  ofl:  the  sour 
festering  water  gradually  from  the  root  of  the 
remotest  grass-blade;  making,  instead  of  pesti- 
lential swamp,  a  green  fruitful  meadow  with  its 
clear-flowing  stream.  How  blessed  for  the  mead- 
ow itself,  let  the  stream  and  its  value  be  great 
or  small !  Labor  is  Life :  from  the  inmost  heart 
of  the  Worker  rises  his  God-given  Force,  the 
sacred  celestial  Life-essence  breathed  into  him 
by  Almighty  God ;  from  his  inmost  heart  awakens 
him  to  all  nobleness, — to  all  knowledge,  "self- 
knowledge"  and  much  else,  so  soon  as  Work 
fitly  begins.  Knowledge?  The  knowledge  that 
will  hold  good  in  working,  cleave  thou  to  that; 
for  Nature  herself  accredits  that,  says  Yea  to 
that.  Properly  thou  hast  no  other  knowledge 
but  what  thou  hast  got  by  working:  the  rest  is 
yet  all  a  hypothesis  of  knowledge ;  a  thing  to  be 
BTgued  of  in  schools,  a  thing  floating  in  the 
clouds,  in  endle«s  logio-vortiees,  till  w^e  try  it 
and  fix  it.  "Doubt,  of  what«ver  kind,  can  be 
eud»d  by  Action  alone." 


189 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 


m 


CROMWELL* 

Poor  Cromwell, — great  Cromwell  f  The  inar- 
ticulate Prophet;  Prophet  who  could  not  apeak. 
Rude,  confused,  struggling  to  utter  himself,  with 
his  savage  depth,  with  his  wild  sincerity;  and 
he  looked  so  strange,  among  the  elegant  Eu- 
phemisms, dainty  little  Falklands,  didactic  Chil- 
lingworths,  diplomatic  Clarendons!  Consider 
him.  An  outer  hull  of  chaotic  confusion,  visions 
of  the  Devil,  nervous  dreams,  almost  semi-mad- 
ness; and  yet  such  a  clear  determinate  man's- 
energy  working  in  the  heart  of  that.  A  kind  ot 
chaotic  man.  The  ray  as  of  pure  starlight  and 
fire,  working  in  such  an  element  of  boundless 
hypochondria,  Mwformed  black  of  darkness!  And 
yet  withal  this  hypochondria,  what  was  it  but 
the  very  greatness  of  the  man?  The  depth  and 
tenderness  of  his  wild  affections:  the  quantity 
of  sympathy  he  had  with  things, — the  quantity 
of  insight  he  would  yet  get  into  the  heart  of 
things,  the  mastery  he  would  yet  get  over  things: 
this  was  his  hypochondria.  The  man's  misery, 
as  man's  misery  always  does,  came  of  his  great- 
ness. Samuel  Johnson  too  is  that  kind  of  man. 
Sorrow-stricken,  half-distracted;  the  wide  ele- 
ment of  mournful  black  enveloping  him, — wide 
as  the  world.    It  is  the  character  of  a  prophetic 

*From  "Heroes  and  Hero-Worship,  and  the  Heroic  In  His- 
tory." 

190 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


man;  a  man  with  his  ■whole  soul  seeing,  and 
struggling  to  see. 

On  this  ground,  too,  I  explain  to  myself  Crom- 
well's reputed  confusion  of  speech.  To  himself 
the  internal  meaning  was  sun-clear;  but  the 
material  with  which  he  was  to  clothe  it  in  ut- 
terance was  not  there.  He  had  lived  silent; 
a  great  unnamed  sea  of  Thought  round  him  all  his 
days;  and  in  his  way  of  life  little  call  to  attempt 
naming  or  uttering  that.  With  his  sharp  power 
of  vision,  resolute  power  of  action,  I  doubt  not  he 
could  have  learned  to  write  Books  withal,  and 
speak  fluently  enough; — he  did  harder  things 
thau  writing  of  Books.  This  kind  of  man  is 
precisely  he  who  is  fit  for  doing  manfully  all 
things  you  will  set  him  on  doing.  Intellect  is 
not  speaking  and  logieizing;  it  is  seeing  and 
ascertaining.  Virtue,  Vir-tus,  manhood,  hero- 
hood,  is  not  fair-spoken  immaculate  regularity; 
it  is  first  of  all,  what  the  GeiTuans  well  name 
it,  Tugend  {Taugend,  dow-ing,  or  Dough-im&ss), 
Courage  and  the  Faculty  to  do.  This  basis  of 
the  matter  Cromwell  had  in  him. 

One  understands  moreover  how,  tho  he  could 
not  speak  in  Parliament,  he  might  preach,  rhap- 
sodic preaching;  above  all,  how  he  might  be  gi*eat 
in  extempore  prayer.  These  are  the  free  out- 
pouring utterances  of  what  is  in  the  heart: 
method  is  not  required  in  them ;  warmth,  depth, 
sincerity  are  all  that  is  required.  Cromwell's 
habit  of  prayer  is  a  notable  feature  of  him.  All 
his    gn^eat     enterprises     were     commenced     with 

grayer.     In  dark  inextricable-looking  difficulties, 
is  Officers  and  he  used  to  assemble,  and  pray 
alternately,  for  hours,  for  days,  till  some  definite 


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THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

resolution  rose  among  them,  some  "door  of 
hope,"  as  they  would  name  it,  disclosed  itself. 
Consider  that.  In  tears,  in  fervent  prayers,  and 
cries  to  the  great  God,  to  have  pity  on  them,  to 
make  His  light  shine  before  them.  They,  armed 
Soldiers  of  Christ,  as  they  felt  themselves  to  be; 
a,  little  band  of  Christian  Brothers,  "who  had 
drawn  the  sword  against  a  great  black  devouring 
world  not  Christian,  but  Mammonish,  Devilish, — 
they  cried  to  God  in  their  straits,  in  their  extreme 
need,  not  to  forsake  the  Cause  that  was  His.  The 
light  which  now  rose  upon  them, — how  could  a 
human  soul,  by  any  means  at  all,  get  better 
light?  "Was  not  the  purpose  so  fonned  like  to 
be  precisely  the  best,  wisest,  the  one  to  be  fol- 
lowed without  hesitation  any  more?  To  them  it 
was  as  the  shining  of  Heaven 's  ovfu  Splendor  in 
the  waste-howling  darkuess;  the  Pillar  of  Fire 
by  night,  that  was  to  guide  them  on  their  desolate 
perilous  way.  Was  it  not  such?  Can  a  man's 
soul,  to  this  hour,  get  guidance  by  any  other 
method  than  intrinsically  by  that  same, — devout 
prostration  of  the  earnest  struggling  soul  before 
the  Highest,  the  Giver  of  all  Light;  be  such 
prayer  a  spoken,  articulate,  or  be  it  a  voiceless, 
inarticulate  one?  There  is  no  other  method. 
"Hypocrisy?"  One  begins  to  be  weary  of  all 
that.  They  who  call  it  so,  have  no  right  to  speak 
on  such  matters.  They  never  formed  a  purpose, 
what  one  can  call  a  pui-pose.  They  went  about 
balancing  expediencies,  plausibilities;  gathering 
votes,  advices;  they  never  were  alone  with  the 
truth  of  a  thing  at  all. — Cromwell's  prayers  were 
likely  to  be  "eloquent,"  and  much  more  than 
that.  His  was  the  heart  of  a  man  who  could  pray. 

192 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


But  indeed  his  actual  Speeches,  I  apprehend, 
wer«  not  nearly  so  iueloqiient,  incondite,  as  they 
look.  We  find  he  was,  what  ail  speakers  aim 
to  be,  an  impressive  speaker,  even  in  Pailiament; 
one  who,  from  the  first,  had  weight.  With  that 
mde  passionate  voice  of  his,  he  was  always 
understood  to  meati  Bomethiug,  and  men  wished 
to  know  what.  He  disregarded  eloquence,  nay 
despised  and  disliked  it ;  Bpoke  always  without 
premeditation  of  the  words  he  was  to  use.  The 
Reporters,  too,  in  those  daj's  seem  to  have  been 
singularly  candid;  and  t-o  have  given  the  Printer 
precisely  what  they  have  found  on  their  own 
note-paper.  And  withal,  what  a  strange  proof 
is  it  of  Cromwell's  being  the  premeditative  ever- 
calculating  hypocrite,  acting  a  play  before  the 
world,  that  to  the  last  he  took  no  more  charge 
of  his  Speeches!  How  came  he  not  to  study  his 
woi-xis  a  little,  before  flinging  them  out  to  the 
public  ?  If  the  words  were  true  words,  they  could 
be  left  to  shift  for  themselves. 

But  with  regard  to  Cromwell's  ''lying,"  we 
will  make  one  remark.  This,  I  suppose,  or  some- 
thing like  this,  to  have  been  the  nature  of  it. 
All  parties  found  themselves  deceived  in  him; 
each  party  understood  him  to  be  meaning  this, 
heard  him  even  say  so,  and  belioid  he  tnrns-out 
to  have  been  meaning  that!  He  was,  cry  they, 
the  chief  of  liars.  But  how,  intriiisically,  is  not 
all  this  the  inevitable  fortune,  not  of  a  false  man 
in  such  times,  but  simply  of  a  supenor  man? 
Suoh  a  man  must  have  reticences  in  him.  If  he 
walk  wearing  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve  for  daws 
to  peek  at,  his  journey  will  not  extend  far  I 
There   is  no   use   for   any   man's   takiug-up  his 

V— n  193 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

abode  in  a  house  built  of  glass.  A  man  always 
is  to  be  himself  the  judge  how  much  of  his  mind 
he  will  show  to  other  men;  even  to  those  he 
would  have  work  along  with  him.  There  are 
impertinent  inquiries  made :  your  rule  is,  to  leave 
the  inquirer  uninformed  on  that  matter;  not, 
if  you  can  help  it,  misinformed,  but  precisely 
as  dark  as  he  was! 

This,  could  one  hit  the  right  phrase  of  re- 
sponse, is  what  the  wise  and  faithful  man  would 
aim  to  answer  in  such  a  case. 

Cromwell,  no  doubt  of  it,  spoke  often  in  the 
dialect  of  small  subaltern  parties;  uttered  to 
them  a  part  of  his  mind.  Each  little  party 
thought  him  all  its  own.  Hence  their  rage,  one 
and  all,  to  find  him  not  of  their  party,  but  of 
his  own  party!  Was  it  his  blame?  At  all  sea- 
sons of  his  history  he  must  have  felt,  among 
such  people,  how  if  he  explained  to  them  the 
deeper  insight  he  had,  they  must  either  have 
shuddered  aghast  at  it,  or  believing  it,  their  own 
little  compact  hypothesis  must  have  gone  wholly 
to  wreck.  They  could  not  have  worked  in  his 
province  any  more;  nay  perhaps  they  could  not 
have  now  worked  in  their  own  province.  It  is 
the  inevitable  position  of  a  great  man  among 
small  men.  Small  men,  most  active,  useful,  are 
to  be  seen  everywhere,  whose  whole  activity  de- 
pends on  some  conviction  which  to  you  is  pal- 
pably a  limited  one;  imperfect,  what  we  call 
an  error.  But  would  it  be  a  kindness  always, 
is  it  a  duty  always  or  often,  to  disturb  them 
in  that?  Many  a  man,  doing  loud  work  in  the 
world,  stands  only  on  some  thin  traditionality, 
conventionality  to  him   indubitable,   to  you  ijo- 

1S4 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


credible:  break  that  beneath  him,  he  sinks  to 
endless  depths!  *'I  might  have  my  hand  full 
of  truth,"  said  Fontenelle,  "and  open  only  my 
little  finger." 

And  if  this  be  the  fact  even  in  matters  of 
doctrine,  how  much  more  in  all  departments  of 
practise!  He  that  cannot  withal  keep  his  mind 
to  himself  cannot  practise  any  considerable  thing 
whatever.  And  we  call  it  "dissimulation,"  all 
this?  What  would  you  think  of  calling  the  gen- 
eral of  an  army  a  dissembler  because  he  did  not 
tell  every  corporal  and  private  soldier  who 
pleased  to  put  the  question,  what  his  thoughts 
were  about  everything? — Cromwell,  I  should 
rather  say,  managed  all  this  in  a  manner  we 
must  admire  for  its  perfection.  An  endless  vor- 
tex of  such  questioning  "corporals"  rolled  con- 
fusedly round  him  throuu,h  his  whole  course; 
whom  he  did  answer.  It  must  have  been  as  a 
great  true-seeing  man  that  ne  managed  this  too. 
Not  one  proved  falsehood,  as  I  said;  not  one! 
Of  what  man  that  ever  .vound  himself  through 
such  a  coil  of  things  will  you  say  so  muchf 

But  in  fact  there  are  two  errors  widely  prev- 
alent, which  pervert  to  the  very  basis  our  judg- 
ments formed  about  such  men  as  Cromwell ;  about 
their  "ambition,"  "falsity,"  and  suchlike.  The 
first  is  what  I  might  call  substituting  the  goal 
of  their  career  for  the  course  and  starting-point 
of  it.  The  vulgar  Historian  of  a  Cromwell  fan- 
cies that  he  had  determined  on  being  Protector 
of  England,  at  the  time  when  he  was  plowing 
the  marsh  lands  of  Cambridgeshire.  His  career 
lay  all  mapped-out:  a  program  of  the  whole 
drama;  which  he  then  step  by  step  dramatically 

195 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

unfolded  with  all  manner  of  cunning,  deceptive 
dramaturgj^,  as  he  went  on, — the  hollow  scheming 
Hypocrites,  or  Play-actor,  that  he  was!  This  is 
a  radical  perversion;  all  but  universal  in  such 
cases.  And  think  for  an  instant  how  different 
the  fact  is!  How  much  does  one  of  us  foresee 
of  his  oAvn  life?  Short  way  ahead  of  us  it  is 
all  dim;  an  Mwwound  skein  of  possibilities,  of 
apprehensions,  attemptabilities,  vague-looming 
hopes.  This  Cromwell  had  not  his  life  lying  aJl 
in  that  fashion  of  Program,  wliich  he  needed 
then,  with  that  unfathomable  cunning  of  his, 
only  to  enact  dramatically,  scene  after  scene! 
Not  so.  We  see  it  so;  but  to  him  it  was  in  no 
measure  so.  What  absurdities  would  fall  away 
of  themselves,  were  this  one  undeniable  fact  kept 
honestly  in  view  oy  History!  Historians  indeed 
will  tell  you  that  they  do  keep  it  in  ^dew; — but 
look  whether  such  is  oractically  the  fact !  Vulgar 
History,  as  in  this  Cromwell's  case,  omits  it 
altogether;  even  the  best  kinds  of  History  only 
remember  it  now  and  then.  To  remember  it  duly 
with  rigorous  perfection,  as  in  the  fact  it  stoodj 
requires  indeed  a  rare  faculty;  rare,  nay  impos- 
sible. A  very  Shakespeare  for  faculty;  or  more 
than  Shakespeare;  who  could  enact  a  brother 
man's  biography,  see  with  the  brother  man's 
eyes  at  all  points  of  bis  course  what  things  he 
saw;  in  short,  know  his  course  and  him,  as  few 
"Historians"  are  like  to  do.  Half  or  more  of 
all  the  thick-piled  perversions  which  distort  our 
image  of  Cromwell,  will  disappear,  if  we  hon- 
estly BO  much  as  try  to  represent  them  so;  in 
sequence,  as  they  were;  not  in  the  lump,  as  they 
are  thrown  down  before  us. 

196 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


Bat  a  second  error  which  I  think  the  generality 
eommit  refers  to  this  same  "ambition"  itself. 
We  exaggerate  the  ambition  of  Great  Men;  we 
mistake  what  the  nature  of  it  is.  Great  Mea 
we  not  ambitious  in  that  sense ;  he  is  a  small 
poor  man  that  i»  ambitious  so.  Examine  the  man 
who  lives  in  mLsery  because  he  does  not  shine 
above  other  men ;  who  goes  about  producing  him- 
self, pruriently  anxious  about  his  gifts  and 
claims;  struggling  to  force  everybody,  as  it  were 
begging  everybody  for  God's  sake,  to  acknowl- 
edge him  a  great  man,  and  set  him  over  the 
heads  of  men!  Such  a  creature  is  among  the 
wretchedest  sights  eeen  under  this  sun.  A  great 
man?  A  poor  morbid  prurient  empty  man*,  fitter 
for  the  ward  of  a  hospital  than  for  a  thi-one 
among  men-  I  advise  you  to  keep  out  of  his 
way.  He  cannot  walk  on  quiet  paths;  unless  you 
will  look  at  him,  wonder  at  him,  write  paragraphs 
about  him,  he  casnot  live.  It  is  the  emptineas 
of  the  man,  not  his  greatness.  Because  there  is 
nothing  in  himself,  he  hungers  and  thirsts  that 
you  would  find  something  in  him.  In  good  truth, 
I  believe  no  great  man,  not  so  much  as  a  genuine 
man  who  had  health  and  real  substance  in  him 
of  whatever  magnitude,  was  ever  much  tormented 
in  this  way. 

Your  Cromwell,  what  good  could  it  do  hint 
to  be  "noticed''  by  noisy  crowds  of  people? 
God  his  Maker  already  noticed  him.  He,  Crom- 
well, was  already  there;  no  notice  would  make 
him  other  than  he  already  was.  Till  his  hair  was 
grown  gray,  and  Life  from  the  down-liill  slope 
•was  all  seen  to  be  limited,  not  infinite  but  finite, 
and  all  a  measurable  matter  how  it  went, — he 


197 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

had  been  content  to  plow  the  ground,  and  read 
his  Bible.  He  in  his  old  days  could  not  support 
it  any  longer,  without  selling  himself  to  False- 
hood, that  he  might  ride  in  gilt  carriages  to 
Whitehall,  and  have  clerks  with  bundles  of  papers 
haunting  him,  ''Decide  this,  decide  that,"  which 
in  utmost  sorrow  of  heart  no  man  can  perfectly 
decide!  What  could  gilt  carriages  do  for  this 
man?  From  of  old  was  there  not  in  his  life  a 
"Weight  of  meaning,  a  terror  and  a  splendor  as 
of  Heaven  itself?  His  existence  there  as  man 
set  him  beyond  the  need  of  gilding.  Death,  Judg- 
ment, and  Eternity:  these  already  lay  as  the 
background  of  whatsoever  he  thought  or  did. 
All  his  life  lay  begirt  as  in  a  sea  of  nameless 
Thoughts,  which  no  speech  of  a  mortal  could 
name.  God's  Word,  as  the  Puritan  prophets  of 
that  time  had  read  it:  this  was  great,  and  all 
else  was  little  to  him.  To  call  such  a  man  "ambi- 
tious," to  figure  him  as  the  prurient  wind-bag 
described  above,  seems  to  me  the  poorest  solecism. 
Such  a  man  will  say:  ''Keep  your  gilt  carriages 
and  huzzaing  mobs,  keep  your  red-tape  clerks, 
your  iufluentialities,  your  important  businesses. 
Leave  me  alone,  leave  me  alone;  there  is  too 
much  of  life  in  me  already!"  Old  Samuel  John- 
son, the  greatest  soul  in  England  in  his  day,  was 
not  ambitious.  "Corsica  Boswell"  flaunted  at 
public  shows  with  printed  ribbons  round  his  hat; 
but  the  gi'eat  old  Samuel  stayed  at  home.  The 
world-wide  soul,  wrapt-up  in  its  sorrows; — what 
could  ribbons  in  the  hat,  do  for  it  ? 

Ah,  yes,  I  will  say  again:  The  great  silent 
men!  Looking  round  on  the  noisy  inanity  of 
the  world,  words  with  little  meaning,  actions  with 

198 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


little  worth,  one  loves  to  reflect  on  the  great 
Empire  of  Silence.  The  noble  silent  men,  scat- 
tered here  and  there,  each  in  his  own  depart- 
ment; silently  thinking;  silently  working;  whom 
no  Morning  Newspaper  makes  mention  of!  They 
are  the  salt  of  the  Earth.  A  country  that  has 
none  or  few  of  these  is  in  a  bad  way.  Like  a 
forest  which  had  no  roots;  which  had  all  turned 
into  leaves  and  boughs; — which  must  soon  wither 
and  be  no  forest.  Woe  for  us  if  we  had  nothing 
but  what  we  can  show,  or  speak.  Silence,  the 
great  Empire  of  Silence:  higher  than  the  stars; 
deeper  than  the  Kingdoms  of  Death  I  It  alone 
is  great;  all  else  is  small. — I  hope  we  English 
will  long  maintain  our  grand  talent  pour  le  silence. 
Let  others  that  cannot  do  without  standing  on 
barrel-heads,  to  spout,  and  be  seen  of  all  the 
market-place,  cultivate  speech  exclusively, — be- 
come a  most  green  forest  without  roots !  Solomon 
says,  There  is  a  time  to  speak;  but  also  a  time 
to  keep  silence.  Of  some  great  silent  Samuel, 
not  urged  to  writing,  as  old  Samuel  Johnson  says 
he  was  by  want  of  money  and  nothing  other, 
one  might  ask,  "Why  do  not  you  too  get  up 
and  speak;  promulgate  your  system,  found  your 
sect?"  ** Truly,"  he  will  answer,  "I  am  con- 
tinent of  my  thought  hitherto;  happily  I  have  yet 
had  the  ability  to  keep  it  in  me,  no  compulsion 
strong  enough  to  speak  it.  My  'system'  is  not 
for  promulgation  first  of  all ;  it  is  for  serving 
myself  to  live  by.  That  is  the  great  purpose 
of  it  to  me.  And  then  the  'honor'?  Alas,  yes; 
— but  as  Cato  said  of  the  statue:  So  many  sta- 
tues in  that  Forum  of  yours,  may  it  not  be  better 
if  they  ask,  Where  is  Cato's  statue?" 

199 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

But  now,  by  way  of  counterpoise  to  this  ol 
Silence,  let  me  say  that  there  are  two  kinds  of 
ambition:  one  wholly  blamable,  the  other  laudable 
and  inevitable.  Nature  has  provided  that  the 
great  silent  Samuel  shall  not  be  silent  too  long. 
The  selfish  wish  to  shine  over  others,  let  it  be  a»- 
counted  altogether  poor  and  miserable.  "Seekest 
thou  great  things,  seek  them  not":  this  is  most 
true.  And  yet,  I  say,  there  is  an  in-epressiWe 
tendency  in  every  man  to  develop  himself  ac- 
cording to  the  magnitude  which  Nature  has  made 
him  of;  to  speak  out,  to  act  out,  what  Nature 
has  Laid  in  him.  This  is  proper,  fit,  inevitable; 
nay,  it  is  a  duty,  and  even  the  summary  of  duties 
for  a  man.  The  meaning  of  life  here  on  earth 
might  be  defined  as  consisting  in  this:  To  unfold 
your  self,  to  work  what  thing  you  have  the  fac- 
ulty for.  It  is  a  necessity  for  the  human  being, 
the  first  law  of  our  existence.  Coleridge  beauti- 
fully remarks  that  the  infant  learns  to  speak 
by  this  necessity  it  feels. — We  will  say  therefore: 
To  decide  about  ambition,  whether  it  is  bad  or 
not,  you  have  two  things  to  take  into  view.  Not 
the  coveting  of  the  place  alone,  but  the  fitness 
for  the  man  of  the  place  withal:  that  is  the 
question.  Perhaps  the  place  was  his,  perhapw 
he  had  a  natural  right,  and  even  obligation  to 
seek  the  place !  Mirabeau  's  ambition  to  be  Prime 
Minister,  how  shall  we  blame  it,  if  he  were  "the 
only  man  in  France  that  could  have  done  any 
good  there"?  Hopefuler  perhaps  had  he  not  so 
clearly  felt  how  much  good  he  could  do!  But 
a  poor  Necker,  who  could  do  no  good,  and  had 
even  felt  that  he  could  do  none,  yet  sitting 
broken-hearted  because  they  had  flung  him  out 

BOO 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


and  he  was  now  quit  of  it,  well  might  Gibbon 
mourn  over  him. — Nature,  I  say,  has  provided 
amply  that  the  silent  great  man  shall  strive  to 
speak  witkalj  too  amply,  rath«rl 


IV 

IN  PRAISE  OF  THOSE  WHO  TOIL* 

Two  men  I  honor,  and  no  third.  First,  the 
toilwom  Craftsman  that  with  earth-made  imple- 
ment laboriously  conquers  the  Earth,  and 
makes  her  man's.  Venerable  to  me  is  the  hard 
Hand;  crooked,  coarse;  wherein  notwithstanding 
lies  a  cunning  virtue,  indofcasibly  royal,  as  of 
the  Sceptre  of  this  Planet.  Venerable  too  is 
the  rugged  face,  all  weathertanued,  besoiled, 
with  its  rude  intelligence;  for  it  is  the  face  of 
a  Man  living  manlike.  0,  but  the  more  venerable 
for  thy  rudeness,  and  even  because  we  must 
pity  as  well  as  love  thee  I  Hardly-entreated 
Brother  1  For  us  was  thy  back  so  bent,  for  us 
were  thy  straight  limbs  and  fingers  so  defonned; 
thou  wert  our  Conscript,  on  whom  the  lot  fell, 
And  fighting  our  battles  wei-t  so  marred.  For  in 
thee  too  lay  a  god-created  Form,  but  it  was  not  to 
be  unfolded;  encrusted  must  it  stand  with  the 
thick  adhesions  and  defacements  of  Labor;  and 
thy  body,  like  thy  soul,  was  not  t^  know 
freedom.     Yet  toil  on,  toil  on:  th<m  art  in  thy 

•B^rom   "Sartor  Resartus."' 

201 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

duty,  be  out  of  it  v?lio  may;  thou  toilest  for  the 
altogether  indispensable,  for  daily  bread. 

A  second  man  I  honor,  and  still  more  highly: 
Him  who  is  seen  toiling  for  the  spiritually  in- 
dispensable; not  daily  bread,  but  the  bread  of 
Life.  Is  not  he  too  in  his  duty;  endeavoring 
towards  inward  Hannony;  revealing  this,  by  act 
or  by  word,  through  all  his  outward  endeavors, 
be  they  high  or  low?  Highest  of  all,  when  his 
outward  and  his  inward  endeavor  are  one:  when 
we  can  name  him  Artist;  not  earthly  Crafts- 
man only,  but  inspired  Thinker,  who  with 
heaven-made  Implement  conquers  Heaven  for 
us!  If  the  poor  and  humble  toil  that  we  have 
Food,  must  not  the  high  and  glorious  toil  for 
him  in  return,  that  he  have  Light,  have  Guid- 
ance, Freedom,  Immortality? — These  two,  in  all 
their  degrees,  I  honor:  all  else  is  chaff  and  dust, 
which  let  the  wind  blow  whither  it  listeth. 


THE  CERTAINTY  OF  JUSTICE* 

Foolish  men  imagine  that  because  judgment 
for  an  evil  thing  is  delayed,  there  is  no  justice, 
but  an  accidental  one,  here  below.  Judgment 
for  an  evil  thing  is  many  times  delayed  some 
day  or  two,  some  century  or  two,  but  it  is  sure 
as  life,  it  is  sure  as  death!  In  the  center  of  the 
world-whirlwind,  verily  now  as  in  the  oldest 
days,  dwells  and  speaks  a  God.    The  great  soul 

®From  "Past   acd   Present." 
202 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


of  the  world  is  jtist.  0  brother,  can  it  be  need- 
ful now,  at  this  late  epoch  of  experience,  after 
eighteen  centuries  of  Christian  preaching  for 
one  thing,  to  remind  thee  of  such  a  fact ;  which 
all  manner  of  Mahometans,  old  pagan  Romans, 
Jews,  Scythians  and  heathen  Greeks,  and  in- 
deed more  or  less  all  men  that  God  made,  have 
managed  at  one  time  to  see  into;  nay  which 
thou  thyself,  till  ''redtape"  sti-angled  the  in- 
ner life  of  thee,  hadst  once  some  inkling  of: 
That  there  is  justice  here  below;  and  even,  at 
bottom,  that  there  is  nothing  else  but  justice! 
Forget  that,  thou  hast  forgotten  all.  Success 
will  never  more  attend  thee:  how  can  it  now? 
Thou  hast  the  whole  Universe  against  thee.  No 
more  success:  mere  sham-success,  for  a  day  and 
days;  rising  ever  higher, — towards  its  Tarpeian 
Rock.  Alas,  how,  in  thy  softhung  Longacre 
vehicle,  of  polished  leather  to  the  bodily  eye, 
of  redtape  philosophy,  of  expediencies,  clubroom 
moralities.  Parliamentary  majorities  to  the 
mind's  eye,  thou  beautifully  rollest:  But  know- 
est  thou  whitherward?  Is  it  towards  the  road^a 
end?  Old  use-and-wont ;  established  methods, 
habitudes,  once  true  and  wise;  man's  noblest 
tendency,  his  perseverance,  and  man's  ignoblest, 
his  inertia;  whatsoever  of  noble  and  ignoble 
Conservatism  there  is  in  men  and  Nations,  strong- 
est always  in  the  strongest  men  and  Nations; 
all  this  is  as  a  road  to  thee,  paved  smooth 
through  the  abyss, — till  all  this  end.  Till  men's 
bitter  necessities  can  endure  thee  no  more. 
Till  Nature's  patience  with  thee  is  done;  and 
there  is  no  road  or  footing  any  farther,  and  the 
abyss  yawns  sheer!     .     .     . 


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THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

Parliaments  and  Courts  of  Westminster  are 
venerabJe  to  me;  how  venerable;  gray  with  a 
thonsand  years  of  honorable  age!  For  a  thou- 
sand years  and  more,  Wisdom,  and  faithful 
Valor,  struggling  amid  much  Folly  and  greedy 
Baseness,  not  without  most  sad  distortions  in  the 
struggle,  have  built  them  up;  and  they  are  as  we 
see.  For  a  thousand  years,  this  English  Nation 
has  found  them  useful  or  supportable:  they  have 
served  this  English  Nation's  wants;  been  a  road 
to  it  through  the  abyss  of  Time.  They  are  vener- 
able, they  are  great  and  strong.  And  yet  it  is 
good  to  remember  always  that  they  are  not  the 
venerablest,  nor  the  greatest,  nor  the  strongest! 
Acts  of  Parliament  are  venerable;  but  if  they 
correspond  not  with  the  writing  on  the  "Ada- 
mant Tablet,"  what  are  they?  Properly  their 
one  element  of  venerableness,  of  strength  of 
greatness,  is,  that  they  at  all  times  correspond 
therewith  as  near  as  by  human  possibility  they 
can.  They  are  cherishing  destruction  in  their 
bosom  every  hour  that  they  continue  other- 
wise.   .    .    . 

Enforce  it  by  never  such  statuting,  three 
readings,  royal  assents ;  blow  it  to  the  four  winds 
with  all  manner  of  quilted  trumpeters  and  pur- 
suivants, in  the  rear  of  them  never  so  many 
gibbets  and  hangmen,  it  will  not  stand,  it  cannot 
stand.  From  nil  souls  of  men,  from  all  ends 
of  Nature,  from  the  Throne  of  God  above,  there 
are  no  voices  bidding  it:  Away,  away!  Does  it 
take  warning;  does  it  stand,  strong  in  its  three 
readings,  in  its  gibbets  and  artillery-parks  I  The 
more  woe  is  to  it,  the  frightfuller  woe.  It 
will  continue  standing  for  its  day,  for  its  year, 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


for  its  ceutnxy,  doing  evil  all  the  while;  but  it 
has  One  enemy  who  is  Almighty;  diasolution, 
•xplosion,  and  the  evorlastiug  Laws  of  Nature 
inoeaaantly  advanoe  towards  it;  aud  the  deeper 
its  rooting,  more  obstinate  its  continuing,  the 
deeper  also  and  huger  will  ruin  and  overturn  be. 
In  this  GodVworld,  with  its  wild-whirling 
eddies  and  mad  foam-oceans,  where  men  and 
nations  perish  as  if  without  law',  and  judg- 
ment for  an  xinjust  thing  is  sternly  delayed, 
dost  thou  think  that  there  is  therefore,  no  justice? 
It  is  what  the  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart.  It 
is  what  the  wise,  in  all  times,  were  wise  be- 
cause they  denied,  and  knew  forever  not 
lo  be.  I  tell  thee  again,  there  is  nothing  else 
but  justice.  One  strong  thing  I  find  here 
below;  the  just  thing,  the  true  thing.  My 
friend,  if  thou  hadst  all  the  artilleiy  of  Wool- 
wich trundling  at  thy  back  in  support  of 
an  unjust  thing;  and  infinite  bonfires  visibly 
waiting  ahead  of  thee,  to  blaze  centuries  long  for 
thy  victory  on  behalf  of  it, — I  would  advise  thee 
to  call  halt,  to  fling  down  thy  baton,  and  say, 
"In  God's  name,  No!"  Thy  "success?"  Poor 
devil,  what  will  thy  success  amount  to?  If  the 
thing  is  unjust,  thou  hast  not  succeeded;  no,  not 
tho  bonfires  blazed  from  North  to  South^  and 
bells  rang,  and  editors  wrote  leading-articles, 
and  the  just  thing  lay  trampled  out  of  sight,  to 
all  mortal  eyes  an  abolished  and  annihilated 
thing.  Success?  In  a  few  years  thou  wilt  be 
dead  and  dark, — all  cold,  eyeless,  deaf;  no  blaze 
of  bonfires,  ding-dong  of  bells  or  leading-arti- 
eles  visible  or  audible  to  thee  again  at  all  for- 
ever:   What  kind  of  success  is  that! 


soe 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

VI 

THE  GREATNESS  OF  SCOTT* 

Into  the  question  whether  Scott  was  a  great 
man  or  not,  we  do  not  propose  to  enter  deeply. 
It  is,  as  too  usual,  a  question  about  words. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  but  many  men  have  been 
named  and  painted  great  who  were  vastly 
smaller  than  he,  as  Little  doubt  moreover  that 
of  the  specially  good  a  very  large  portion,  accord- 
ing to  any  genuine  standard  of  man's  worth, 
were  worthless  in  comparison  to  him.  He 
for  whom  Scott  is  great  may  most  innocently 
name  him  so;  may  with  advantage  admire  his 
great  qualities,  and  ought  with  sincere  heart  to 
emulate  him.  At  the  same  time^  it  is  good  that 
there  be  a  certain  degree  of  precision  in  our 
epithets.  It  is  good  to  understand,  for  one 
thing,  that  no  popularity,  and  open-mouthed 
wonder  of  all  the  world,  continued  even  for  a 
long  series  of  years,  can  make  a  man  great.  Such 
popularity  is  a  remarkable  fortune;  indicates  a 
great  adaptation  of  the  man  to  his  element  of 
circumstances;  but  may  or  may  not  indicate 
anything  great  in  the  man.  To  our  imagination, 
as  above  hinted,  there  is  a  certain  apotheosis 
in  it ;  but  in  the  reality  no  apotheosis  at  all. 
Popularity  is  as  a  blaze  of  illumination,  or 
alas,  of  conflagi-ation  kindled  round  a  man; 
showing    what    is    in    him;    not    putting    the 

'  From  the  essay  on  Lockhart's  "Life  of  Scott,"  con- 
iributed  to  the  London  and  Westminster  Review  in  1838. 

206 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


smallest  item  more  into  him ;  often  ab- 
stracting much  from  him;  conflagrating  the 
poor  man  himself  into  ashes  and  caput  mortuum! 

And  then,  by  the  nature  of  it,  such  popularity 
is  transient;  your  "series  of  years,"  quite  un- 
expectedly, sometimes  almost  all  on  a  sudden, 
terminates!  For  the  stupidity  of  men,  espe- 
cially of  men  congregated  in  masses  round  an 
object,  is  extreme.  What  illuminations  and  con- 
flagrations have  kindled  themselves,  as  if  new 
heavenly  suns  had  risen,  which  proved  only  to 
be  tar-barrels,  and  terrestrial  locks  of  straw! 
Profane  princesses  cried  out,  *'One  God;  one 
Farinelli ! ' '  * — and  whither  now  have  they  and 
Farinelli  danced?  In  literature,  too,  there  have 
been  seen  popularities  greater  even  than  Scott's, 
and  nothing  perennial  in  the  interior  of  them. 
Lope  de  Vega,  whom  all  the  world  swore  by, 
and  made  a  proverb  of;  who  could  make  a 
five-act  tragedy  in  almost  as  many  hours;  the 
greatest  of  all  popularities  past  or  present,  and 
perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  men  that  ever  ranked 
among  popularities:  Lope  himself,  so  radiant,  far- 
shining,  has  not  proved  to  be  a  sun  or  star  of 
the  firmament ;  but  is  as  good  as  lost  and  gone 
out,  or  plays  at  best,  in  the  eyes  of  some  few,  as 
a  vague  aurora-borealis,  and  brilliant  ineffectu- 
ality. 

The  great  man  of  Spain  sat  obscure  at  the 
time,  all  dark  and  poor,  a  maimed  soldier;  wri- 
ting his  Don  Quixote  in  prison.    And  Lope 's  fate 

•A  reference  apparently  to  Carlo  Broschi,  an  Italian 
foprano.  whom  Grove's  "Dictionary"  describes  as  "the  most 
remarkable  singer  perhaps  who  has  ever  lived."  He  wag 
bom   In    1705    and   died   in    1782. 


207 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 

■withal  "was  sad,  his  popularity  perhaps  a  curse  to 
him;  for  in  this  man  there  was  something  ethe- 
real too,  a  divine  particle  traceable  in  few  other 
popular  men;  and  such  far  shining  diffusion  of 
himself,  tho  all  the  world  swore  by  it,  would  do 
nothing  for  the  true  life  of  him  even  while  he 
lived;  he  had  to  creep  into  a  convent,  into  a 
monk 's  cowl,  and  learn,  with  infinite  sorrow,  that 
his  blessedness  had  lain  elsewhere;  that  when  a 
man's  life  feels  itself  to  be  siok  and  an  error,  no 
voting  of  by-standers  can  make  it  well  and  a 
truth  again. 

Or  coming  down  to  our  own  times,  was  not 
August  Kotzebue  popular?  Kotzebue,  not  so 
many  years  since,  saw  himself,  if  rumor  and 
hand-clapping  could  be  credited,  the  greatest  man 
going;  saw  visibly  his  "Thoughts,"  drest  out  in 
plush  and  pasteboard,  permeating  and  peram- 
bulating civilized  Europe;  the  mt^t  iron  visages 
weeping  with  him,  in  all  theaters  from  Cadiz  to 
Kamschatka;  his  own  "astonishing  genius," 
meanwhile,  producing  two  tragedies  or  so  per 
month;  he,  on  the  whole,  blazed  high  enough:  he 
too  has  gone  out  into  Night  and  Orcus,  and  al- 
ready is  not.  We  wiU  omit  this  of  popularity 
altogether,  and  account  it  as  making  simply  noth- 
ing toward  Scott's  greatness  or  non-greatness, 
as  an  accident,  not  a  quality. 

Shorn  of  this  falsifying  nimbus,  and  redneed 
to  his  own  natural  dimensions,  th»re  remains  th« 
reality,  "Walter  Scott,  and  what  we  ©an  find  in 
him;  to  be  accounted  great,  or  not  great,  accord- 
ing to  the  dialects  of  men.  Friends  to  precision 
of  epithet  will  probably  deny  his  title  to  the 
name  "great."    It  seems  to  us  there  goes  other 

2es 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


stuff  to  the  making  of  great  men  than  can  be 
detected  here.  One  knows  not  what  idea  worthy 
of  the  name  of  great,  what  purpose,  instinct,  or 
tendency,  that  oould  be  called  great,  Scott  ever 
was  inspired  with.  His  life  was  worldly;  his 
ambitions  were  worldly.  There  was  nothing  spir- 
itual in  him;  all  is  economical,  material  of  the 
earth  earthy.  A  love  of  picturesque,  of  beau- 
tiful, vigorous  and  graceful  things;  a  genuine 
love,  yet  not  more  genuine  than  has  dwelt  in 
hundreds  of  men  named  minor  poets:  this  is  the 
highest  quality  to  be  discerned  in  him.  His 
power  of  representing  these  things  too,  his  poetic 
power,  like  his  moral  power,  was  a  genius  in 
extenso,  as  we  may  say,  not  in  intenso.  In  action, 
in  speculation,  broad  as  he  was,  he  rose  nowhere 
high;  productive  without  measure  as  to  quantity, 
in  quality  he  for  the  most  part  transcended  but 
a  little  way  the  region  of  commonplace. 

It  has  been  said,  "no  man  has  written  as  many 
volumes  with  so  few  sentences  that  can  be 
quoted."  Winged  words  were  not  his  vocation; 
nothing  urged  him  that  way:  the  great  mystery 
of  existence  was  not  great  to  him;  did  not  drive 
him  into  rocky  solitudes  to  wrestle  with  it  for 
an  answer,  to  be  answei-ed  or  to  perish.  He  had 
nothing  of  the  martyr;  into  no  "dark  region  to 
slay  monsters  for  us,"  did  he,  either  led  or 
driven,  venture  down :  his  conquests  were  for  his 
own  behoof  mainly,  conquests  over  common  mar- 
ket labor,  and  reckonable  in  good  metallio  coin 
of  the  realm.  The  thing  he  had  faith  in,  except 
power,  power  of  what  sort  eoever,  and  even  of 
the  rudest  sort,  would  be  difficult  to  point  out. 
One  sees  not  that  he  believed  in  anything:  nay, 


V— 14  209 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

he  did  not  even  disbelieve;  but  quietly  acqui- 
esced, and  made  himself  at  home  in  a  world  of 
conventionalities:  the  false,  the  semi-false,  and 
the  true  were  alike  true  in  this  that  they  were 
there,  and  had  power  in  their  hands  more  or  less. 
It  was  well  to  feel  so;  and  yet  not  well!  We 
find  it  written,  "Wo  to  them  that  are  at  ease 
in  Zion";  but  surely  it  is  a  double  wo  to  them 
that  are  at  ease  in  Babel,  in  Domdaniel.  On  the 
other  hand  he  wrote  many  volumes,  amusing 
many  thousands  of  men.  Shall  we  call  this 
great?  It  seems  to  us  there  dwells  and  struggles 
another  sort  of  spirit  in  the  inward  parts  of 
great  men!     .     .    . 

Yet  on  the  other  hand,  the  surliest  critic  must 
allow  that  Scott  was  a  genuine  man,  which  itself 
Is  a  great  matter.  No  affectation,  fantasticality, 
or  distortion,  dwelt  in  him ;  no  shadow  of  cant. 
Nay,  withal,  was  he  not  a  right  brave  and  strong 
man,  according  to  his  kind?  What  a  load  of 
toil,  what  a  measure  of  felicity,  he  quietly  bore 
along  with  him;  with  what  quiet  strength  he 
both  worked  on  this  earth,  and  enjoyed  in  it; 
invincible  to  evil  fortune  and  to  good!  A  most 
composed  invincible  man;  in  difficulty  and  dis- 
tress, knowing  no  discouragement,  Samson-like, 
carrying  off  on  his  strong  Samson-shoulders  the 
gates  that  would  imprison  him;  in  danger  and 
menace,  laughing  at  the  whisper  of  fear.  And 
then,  with  such  a  sunny  current  of  true  humor 
and  humanity,  a  free  joyful  sympathy  with  so 
many  things;  what  of  fire  he  had,  all  lying  so 
beautifully  latent,  as  radical  latent  heat,  as  fruit- 
ful internal  warmth  of  life;  a  most  robust, 
healthy  man !    The  truth  is,  our  best  definition  of 

210 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


Seott  were  perhaps  even  this,  that  he  was,  if  no 
great  man,  then  something  much  pleasanter  to 
be,  a  robust,  thoroughly  healthy,  and  withal,  very 
prosperous  and  victorious  man.  An  eminently 
well-conditioned  man,  healthy  in  body,  healthy  in 
soul  J  we  will  call  him  one  of  the  healthiest  of 
men.  Neither  is  this  a  small  matter:  health  is 
a  great  matter,  both  to  the  possessor  of  it  and 
to  others.    .    .    . 

Scott's  career,  of  writing  impromptu  novels  to 
buy  farms  with,  was  not  of  a  kind  to  terminate 
voluntarily,  but  to  accelerate  itself  more  and 
more ;  and  one  sees  not  to  what  wise  goal  it  could, 
in  any  case,  have  led  him.  Bookseller  Con- 
stable's bankruptcy  was  not  the  ruin  of  Scott; 
his  ruin  was  that  ambition,  and  even  false  ambi- 
tion, had  laid  hold  of  him;  that  his  way  of  life 
was  not  wise.  Whither  could  it  lead?  Where 
could  it  stop?  New  farms  there  remained  ever 
to  be  bought,  while  new  novels  could  pay  for 
them.  More  and  more  success  but  gave  more 
and  more  appetite,  more  and  more  audacity.  The 
impromptu  wi-iting  must  have  waxed  ever 
thinner;  declined  faster  and  faster  into  the  ques- 
tionable category,  into  the  condemnable,  into  the 
general  condemned. 

Already  there  existed,  in  secret,  everywhere  a 
considerable  opposition  party;  witnesses  of  the 
Waverly  miracles,  unable  to  believe  in  them,  but 
forced  silently  to  protest  against  them.  Such 
opposition  party  was  in  the  sure  case  to  grow; 
and  even,  with  the  impromptu  process  ever  going 
on,  ever  waxing  thinner,  to  draw  the  world  over 
to  it.  Silent  protest  must  at  length  come  to 
words;  harsh  truths,  backed  by  harsher  facts  of 


211 


THE   BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

a  world-popularity  over-wrought  and  worn  out, 
behoved  to  have  been  spoken; — such  as  can  be 
spoken  now  without  reluctance  when  they  can 
pain  the  brave  man's  heart  no  more.  Who 
knows?  Perhaps  it  was  better  ordered  to  be  all 
othermse.  Otherwise,  at  any  rate,  it  was.  One 
day  the  Constable  mountain,  which  seemed  to 
stand  strongly  like  the  other  rock  mountains, 
gave  suddenly,  as  the  icebergs  do,  a  loud- 
sounding  crack;  suddenly  Avith  huge  clangor, 
shivered  itself  into  ice-dust;  and  sank,  carrying 
much  along  with  it.  In  one  day  Scott's  high- 
heaped  money-wages  became  fairy-money  and 
nonentity;  in  one  day  the  rich  man  and  lord  of 
land  saw  himself  penniless,  landless,  a  bankrupt 
among  creditors. 

It  was  a  hard  trial.  He  met  it  proudly,  bravely 
• — like  a  brave  proud  man  of  the  world.  Perhaps 
there  had  been  a  prouder  way  ctill;  to  have 
owned  honestly  that  he  was  unsuccessful  then, 
all  bankrupt,  broken,  in  the  world's  goods  and 
repute;  and  to  have  turned  elsewhither  for  some 
refuge.  Refuge  did  lie  elsewhere;  but  it  was  not 
Scott's  course,  or  fashion  of  mind,  to  seek  it 
there.  To  say:  hitherto  I  have  been  all  in  the 
wrong,  and  this  my  fame  and  pride,  now  broken, 
was  an  empty  delusion  and  spell  of  accui*sed 
witchcraft!  It  was  diiBciiit  for  flesh  and  blood  1 
fie  said,  I  will  retrieve  myself,  and  make  my 
point  go®d  yet,  or  die  for  it.  Silently,  like  a 
proud  strong  man,  he  girt  himself  to  the  Hercules 
task  of  remoA-iug  rubbish-mountains,  since  that 
was  it ;  of  paying  large  ransoms  by  what  he  could 
still  write  and  sell.  In  his  declining  years  too; 
misfortune  is  doubly  and  trebly  unfortunate  that 

212 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


befalls  us  then.  Scott,  fell  to  his  Hercules'  task 
like  a  very  man,  and  went  on  with  it  unwearied- 
ly;  with  a  noble  cheerfulness,  while  his  life- 
strings  were  cracking,  he  grappled  with  it,  and 
wrestled  with  it,  years  long,  in  death-grips, 
strength  to  strength;  and  /(  proved  the  stronger; 
and  his  life  and  heart  did  crack  and  break;  the 
cordage  of  a  most  strong  heart !  Over  these  last 
writings  of  Scott,  his  Napoleons,  Demonologies, 
Scotch  Histories,  and  the  rest,  criticism,  finding 
still  much  to  wonder  at,  much  to  commend,  will 
utter  no  word  of  blame,  this  one  word  only,  Wo 
is  me!  The  noble  warhorse  that  once  laughed 
at  the  shaking  of  the  spear,  how  is  he  doomed 
to  toil  himself  dead,  dragging  ignoble  wheels ! 
Scott's  descent  was  like  that  of  a  spent  projec- 
tile; rapid,  straight  down;  perhaps  mercifully  so. 
It  is  a  tragedy,  as  all  life  is;  one  proof  more 
that  Fortune  stands  on  a  restless  globe;  that 
Ambition  never  yet  profited  any  man.    .    ,    . 

And  so  the  cm-tain  falls;  and  the  strong  "Wal- 
ter Scott  is  with  us  no  more.  A  possession  from 
him  does  remain ;  widely  scattered ;  yet  attain- 
able; not  inconsiderable.  It  can  be  said  of  him, 
"When  he  departed  he  took  a  Man's  life  along 
with  him."  No  sounder  piece  of  British  manhood 
was  put  together  in  that  eighteenth  century  of 
time.  Alas,  his  fine  Scotch  face,  with  its  shaggy 
honestj',  sagacity,  and  goodness,  when  we  saw 
it  latterly  on  the  Edinburgh  streets,  was  all  worn 
with  care,  the  joy  all  fled  from  it;  plowed 
with  labor  and  sorrow.  We  shall  never  forget 
it;  we  shall  never  see  it  again.  Adieu,  Sir  Wal- 
ter, pride  of  all  Scotchmen,  take  our  proud  and 
sad  farewell. 


213 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

vn 

BOSWELL  AND  HIS  BOOK^ 

"We  have  next  a  word  to  say  of  James  Boswell. 
Boswell  has  already  been  much  commented  upon; 
but  rather  in  the  way  of  censure  and  vitupera- 
tion than  of  true  recognition.  He  was  a  man 
that  brought  himself  much  before  the  world; 
eonfest  that  he  eagerly  coveted  fame,  or  if  that 
were  not  possible,  notoriety;  of  which  latter,  as 
he  gained  far  more  than  seemed  his  due,  the 
public  were  incited,  not  only  by  their  natural  love 
of  scandal,  but  by  a  special  ground  of  envy,  to 
say  whatever  ill  of  him  could  be  said.  Out  of 
the  fifteen  millions  that  then  lived,  and  had  bed 
and  board,  in  the  British  Islands,  this  man  has 
provided  us  a  greater  pleasure  than  any  other 
individual,  at  whose  cost  we  now  enjoy  ourselves; 
perhaps  has  done  us  a  greater  service  than  can 
be  specially  attributed  to  more  than  two  or 
three:  yet,  ungrateful  that  we  are,  no  written  or 
spoken  eulogy  of  James  Boswell  anyivhere  exists; 
his  recompense  in  solid  pudding  (so  far  as  copy- 
right went)  was  not  excessive;  and  as  for  the 
empty  praise,  it  has  altogether  been  denied  him. 
Men  are  unwiser  than  children;  they  do  not  know 
the  hand  that  feeds. 

Boswell  was  a  person  whose  mean  or  bad  quali- 
ties lay  open  to  the  general  eye;  visible,  palpable 
to  the  dullest.    His  good  qualities  again,  belonged 

*Prom  the  essay  on  Croker's  edition  of  Boswell's  "Life 
of  Johnson,"  contributed  to  Frazer'a  Magazine  in  1832. 

214 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


not  to  the  time  he  lived  in ;  were  far  from  common 
then,  indeed,  in  such  a  degree,  were  almost  un- 
exampled; not  recognizable  therefore  by  every 
one;  nay,  apt  even  (so  strange  had  they  gi'own) 
to  be  confined  with  the  v^^ry  \dces  they  lay  con- 
tiguous to,  and  had  sprung  out  of.  That  he  was 
a  wine-bibler  and  gross  liver;  gluttonously  fond 
of  whatever  would  yield  him  a  little  solacement, 
were  it  only  of  a  stomachic  character,  is  un- 
deniable enough.  That  he  was  vain,  heedless,  a 
babbler;  had  much  of  the  sycophant,  alternating 
with  the  braggadocio,  curiously  spiced  too  with 
an  all-pervading  dash  of  the  coxcomb;  that  he 
gloried  much  when  the  Tailor,  by  a  court-suit, 
had  made  a  new  man  of  him;  that  he  appeared 
at  the  Shakespeare  Jubilee  with  a  riband,  im- 
printed "Corsica  Boswell,"  round  his  hat;  and 
in  short,  if  you  will,  lived  nc  day  of  his  life 
without  doing  and  saying  more  than  one  preten- 
tious inaptitude;  all  this  unhappily  is  evident  as 
the  sun  at  noon.  The  very  look  of  Boswell  seems 
to  have  signified  so  much.  In  that  cocked  nose, 
cocked  partly  in  triumph  over  his  weaker  fellow- 
creatures,  partly  to  snuff  up  the  smell  of  coming 
pleasure,  and  scent  it  from  afar;  in  those  bag- 
cheeks,  hanging  like  half-filled  wine-skins,  still 
able  to  contain  more;  in  that  coarsely  protruded 
shelf  mouth,  that  fat  dewlapped  chin ;  in  all  this, 
who  sees  not  sensuality,  pretension,  boisterous  im- 
becility enough;  much  that  could  not  have  been 
ornamental  in  the  temper  of  a  great  man's  over- 
fed great  man  (what  the  Scotch  name  flunky), 
though  it  had  been  more  natural  there.  The 
under  part  of  Boswell 's  face  is  of  a  low,  almost 
brutish  character.    .    .    . 


215 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so  pre- 
possessed and  held  back  by  nature  and  by  art, 
fly  nevertheless  like  iron  to  its  magnet,  whither 
his  better  genius  called!  You  may  surround  the 
iron  and  the  magnet  with  what  enclosures  and 
encumbrances  you  please, — with  wood,  with  rub- 
bish, with  brass:  it  matters  not,  the  two  feel 
each  other,  they  struggle  restlessly  toward  each 
other,  they  will  be  together.  The  iron  may  be 
a  Scottish  squirelet,  full  of  gulosity  and  "gig- 
manity";  the  magnet  an  English  plebeian,  and 
moving  rag-and-dust  mountain,  coarse,  proud, 
irascible,  imperious;  nevei'theless,  behold  how 
they  embrace,  and  inseparably  cleave  to  one  an- 
other! It  is  one  of  the  strangest  phenomena  of 
the  past  century,  that  at  a  time  when  the  old 
reverent  feeling  of  Discipleship  (such  as  brought 
men  from  far  countries,  with  rich  gifts,  and 
prostrate  soul,  to  the  feet  of  the  Prophets)  had 
passed  utterly  away  from  men's  practical  experi- 
ence, was  no  longer  surmised  to  exist,  (as  it  does,) 
perennial,  indestructible,  in  man's  inmost  heart, 
—James  Boswell  should  have  been  the  individual, 
of  all  others,  predestined  to  recall  it,  in  such 
singular  guise,  to  the  wondering,  and,  for  a  long 
while,  laughing,  and  unreeognising  world.  It  has 
been  commonly  said,  The  man's  vulgar  vanity 
was  all  that  attached  him  to  Johnson;  he  de- 
lighted to  be  seen  near  him,  to  be  thought  con- 
nected with  him.  Now  let  it  be  at  once  granted 
that  no  consideration  springing  out  of  vulgar 
vanity  could  well  be  absent  from  the  mind  of 
James  Boswell,  in  this  his  intercourse  with  John- 
son, or  in  any  considerable  transaction  of  hia 
life. 

210 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


At  the  same  time  ask  yourself:  Whether  such 
vanity,  a»d  nothing  else,  actuated  him  therein; 
whether  this  was  the  true  essence  and  moving 
principle  of  the  phenomenon,  or  not  rather  its 
outward  vesture,  and  the  accidental  environment 
(and  defacement)  in  which  it  came  to  light?  The 
man  was,  by  natui-e  and  habit,  vain ;  a  sycophant- 
coxcomb,  be  it  granted ;  but  had  there  been  noth- 
ing more  than  vanity  in  him,  was  Samuel  John- 
son the  man  of  men  to  whom  he  must  attach 
himself?  At  the  date  when  Johnson  was  a  poor 
rusty-coated  "scholar"  dwelling  in  Temple-lane, 
and  indeed  throughout  their  whole  intercourse 
afterwards,  were  there  not  chancelloi-s  and  prime 
ministers  enough;  graceful  gentlemen,  the  glass 
of  fashion ;  honor-giving  noblemen ;  dinner  giving 
rich  men ;  renowned  fire-eaters,  swordsmen, 
gownsmen;  Quacks  and  Realities  of  all  hues, — 
any  one  of  whom  bulked  much  larger  in  the 
world's  eye  than  Johnson  ever  did?  To  any  one 
of  whom,  by  half  that  submissiveness  and  assidu- 
ity, our  Bozzy  might  have  recommended  himself; 
and  sat  there,  the  envy  of  surrounding  lickspit- 
tles; pocketing  now  solid  emolument,  swallowing 
now  well-cooked  viands  and  wines  of  rich  vin- 
tage; in  each  case,  also,  shone  on  by  some  glit- 
tering reflex  of  Renown  or  Notoriety,  so  a«  to  be 
the  observed  of  innumerable  observers.  To  no 
one  of  whom,  however,  though  otherwise  a  most 
diligent  solicitor  and  purveyor,  did  he  so  attach 
himself:  such  vulgar  courtierships  were  his  paid 
drudgery,  or  leisure-amusement;  the  worship  of 
Johnson  was  his  grand,  ideal,  voluntary  business. 
Does  not  the  frothy-hearted  yet  enthusiastic  man, 
dofl&ng  his  Advocate's  wig,  regularly  tak©  post* 

217 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

<— —  — — ^— ~  »^.— —».»—— —»^«» 

and  hurry  up  to  London,  for  the  sake  of  his  Sage 
chiefly ;  as  to  a  Feast  of  Tabernacles,  the  Sabbath 
of  his  T^'hole  year?  The  plate-licker  and  wine- 
bibler  dives  into  Bolt  Court,  to  sip  muddy  coffee 
with  a  cynical  old  man,  and  a  sour-tempered 
blind  old  woman  (feeling  the  cups,  whether  they 
are  full,  with  her  finger)  and  patiently  endured 
contradictions  without  end;  too  happy  so  he  may 
but  be  allowed  to  listen  and  live.  Nay,  it  does 
not  appear  that  vulgar  vanity  could  ever  have 
been  much  flattered  by  Boswell's  relation  to  John- 
son. 

Mr.  Croker  says  Johnson  was,  to  the  last, 
Kttle  regarded  by  the  gi-eat  world;  from  which, 
for  a  vidgar  vanity,  ail  honor,  as  from  its  foun- 
tain, descends.  Bozzy,  even  among  Johnson's 
friends,  and  special  admirers,  seems  rather  to 
have  been  laughed  at  than  envied;  his  officious, 
whisking,  consequential  ways,  the  daily  reproofs 
and  rebuffs  he  underwent,  could  gain  from  the 
world  no  golden,  but  only  leaden,  opinions.  His 
devout  Discipleship  seemed  nothing  more  than  a 
mean  Spanielship,  in  the  general  eye.  His  mighty 
"constellation,"  or  sun,  round  whom  he,  as  satel- 
lite, observantly  gyrated,  was,  for  the  mass  of 
men,  but  a  huge,  ill-snuffed  tallow-light,  and  he 
a  weak  night-moth,  circling  foolishly,  dangerous- 
ly about  it,  not  knowing  what  he  wanted.  If  he 
enjoyed  Highland  dinners  and  toasts,  as  hench- 
man to  a  new  sort  of  chieftain,  Henry  Erskine, 
in  the  domestic  * 'Outer-House."  could  hand  him 
a  shilling  *'for  the  sight  of  his  Bear."  Doubtless 
the  man  was  laughed  at,  and  often  heard  himself 
laughed  at  for  his  Johnsonism.  To  be  envied, 
is  the  grand  and  sole  aim  of  vulgar  vanity;  to 

218 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


be  filled  with  good  tilings  is  that  of  scusuality; 
for  Johnson  perhaps  no  man  living  envied  poor 
Bozzy;  and  of  good  things  (except  himself  paid 
for  them)  there  was  no  vestige  in  that  acquaint- 
anceship. Had  nothing  other  or  better  than 
vanity  and  sensuality  been  there,  Johnson  and 
Boswell  had  never  come  together,  or  had  soon 
and  finally  separated  again.    .    .    . 

Consider,  too,  with  what  force,  diligence,  and 
vivacity,  he  has  rendered  back,  all  this  which,  in 
Johnson's  neighborhood,  his  "open  sense"  had 
so  eagerly  and  freely  taken  in.  That  loose- 
flowing,  careless-looking  Work  of  his  is  as  a 
picture  by  one  of  Nature's  own  Artists;  the  best 
possible  resemblance  of  a  Reality;  like  the  very 
image  thereof  in  a  clear  mirror.  Which  indeed 
it  was;  let  but  the  mirror  be  clear,  this  is  the 
great  point;  the  picture  must  and  will  be  genu- 
ine. How  the  babbling  Bozzy,  inspired  only  by 
Love,  and  the  recognition  and  vision  which  love 
can  lend,  epitomizes  nightly  the  words  of  Wis- 
dom, the  deeds  and  aspects  of  Wisdom,  and  so, 
by  little  and  liitle,  unconsciously  works  together 
for  us  a  whole  Johnsoniad;  a  more  free,  perfect, 
sunlit,  and  spirit-speaking  likeness,  than  for 
many  centuries  had  been  drawn  by  man  of  man! 
Scarcely  since  the  days  of  Homer  has  the  feat 
been  equaled ;  indeed,  in  many  senses  this  also  is 
a  kind  of  Heroic  Poem.  The  fit  Odyssey  of  our 
unheroic  age  was  to  be  written,  not  sung;  of 
a  Thinker,  not  a  Fighter;  and  (for  want  of  a 
Homer)  by  the  first  open  soul  that  might  offer, — 
looked  such  even  through  the  organs  of  a  Bos- 
well. We  do  the  man's  intellectual  endo^^^nentS 
great  wrong,  if  we  measure  it  by  its  mere  logical 

219 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

^™^-^— — i^         ■— «^— — ^— — .— — ^— ^-i— -— ^^i— — 

outcome;  though  here,  too,  there  is  not  wanting 
a  light  ingenuity,  a  figurativeness,  and  fanciful 
sport,  with  glimpses  of  insight  far  deeper  than 
the  common.  But  Boswell's  grand  intellectoal 
talent  was  (as  such  ever  is)  an  unconsdoua  0U8, 
of  far  higher  reach  and  signifieance  than  Logic; 
and  showed  itself  in  the  whole,  not  in  parts. 
Here  again  we  have  that  old  saying  verified, 
**The  heart  sees  farther  than  the  head-" 

Thus  does  poor  Bozzy  stand  out  to  us  as  an 
ill-assorted,  glaring  mixture  of  the  highest  and 
the  lowest.  What,  indeed  is  man's  life  generally 
but  a  kind  of  beast-godhead;  the  god  in  us  tri- 
umphing more  and  more  over  the  beast;  striving 
more  and  more  to  subdue  it  under  his  feet?  Did 
not  the  Ancients,  in  their  wise,  perennially  sig- 
nificant way,  figure  Nature  itself,  their  sacred 
All,  or  Pan,  as  a  portentous  commingling  of  these 
two  discords;  as  musical,  humane,  oracular  in  its 
upper  part,  yet  ending  below  in  the  cloven  hairy 
feet  of  a  goat  ?  The  union  of  melodious,  celestial 
Freewill  and  Reason,  with  foul  Irrationality  and 
Lust;  in  which,  nevertheless,  dwelt  a  mysterious 
unspeakable  Fear  and  half -mad  panic  Awe;  as 
for  mortals  there  well  might !  And  is  not  man  a 
microcosm,  or  epitomized  mirror  of  that  same 
Universe;  or,  rather,  is  not  that  Universe  even 
Himself,  the  reflex  of  his  own  fearful  and  won- 
derful being,  ''the  waste  fantasy  of  his  own 
dream?"  No  wonder  that  man,  that  each  man. 
and  James  Boswell  like  the  others,  should  re- 
semble it!  The  peculiarity  in  his  case  was  the 
nnusual  defect  of  amalgamation  and  subordina- 
tion :  the  highest  lay  side  by  side  with  the  lowest } 
not   morally   combined    with   it   and   spiritually 

220 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


transfiguriBg  it;  but  tumbling  in  half-mechanical 
juxtaposition  with  it,  and  from  time  to  time,  as 
the  mad  aliernation  chanced,  irradiating  it,  or 
eclipsed  by  it.     .     .    . 

As  for  the  Book  itself,  questionless  the  univer- 
sal favor  entertained  for  it  is  well  merited-  In 
worth  as  a  Book  we  have  rated  it  beyond  any 
other  product  of  the  eighteenth  century;  all 
Johnson's  own  Writings,  laborious  and  in  their 
kind  genuine  above  most,  stand  on  a  quite  inferior 
level  to  it;  already,  indeed,  they  are  becoming 
obsolete  for  this  generation ;  and  for  some  future 
generations,  may  be  valuable  chiefly  as  Prolego- 
mena and  Expository  Scholia  to  this  Johnsoniad 
of  Boswell.  Which  of  us  but  remembers,  as  one 
of  the  sunny  spots  in  his  existence,  the  day  when 
he  opened  these  airy  volumes,  fascinating  him  by 
a  true  natural-magic!  It  was  as  if  the  curtains 
of  the  Past  were  drawn  aside,  and  we  looked 
mysteriously  into  a  kindred  country,  where  dwelt 
our  Fathers;  inexpressibly  dear  to  us,  but  which 
had  seemed  forever  hidden  from  our  eyes.  For 
the  dead  Night  had  engulfed  it;  all  was  gone, 
vanished  as  if  it  had  not  been.  Nevertheless, 
wondrously  given  back  to  us,  there  once  more  it 
lay;  all  bright,  lucid,  blooming;  a  little  island 
of  Creation  amid  the  circumambient  Void.  There 
it  still  lies;  like  a  thing  stationary,  imperishable, 
over  which  changeful  Time  were  now  accumu- 
lating itself  in  rain,  and  could  not,  any  longer, 
harm  it,  or  hida  it. 

Thus  for  BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson  has  Time 
done,  is  Time  still  doing,  what  no  ornament  of 
Art  or  Artifice  could  have  done  for  it.  Rough 
Samuel   and   sleek   wheedling   James   were,   and 


221 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

are  not.  Their  Life  and  whole  personal  Environ- 
ment has  melted  into  air.  The  Mitre  Tavern  still 
stands  in  Fleet  Street;  but  where  now  is  its 
scot-and-lot  paying,  beef-and-ale  loving,  cocked- 
hatted,  potbellied  Landlord;  its  rosy-faced,  as- 
siduous Landlady,  Avith  all  her  shining  brass- 
pans,  waxed  tables,  well-filled  larder-shelves;  her 
cooks,  and  bootjacks,  and  errand-boys,  and 
watery-mouthed  hangers-on?  Gone!  Gone!  The 
becking  waiter,  that  with  wreathed  smiles,  wont- 
to  spread  for  Samuel  and  Bozzy  their  ''supper 
of  the  gods,"  has  long  since  pocketed  his  last 
sixpence;  and  vanished,  sixpence  and  all,  like  a 
ghost  at  cock-crowing.  The  Bottles  they  drank 
out  of  are  all  broken,  the  Chairs  they  sat  on  all 
rotted  and  burnt;  the  very  Knives  and  Forks 
they  ate  with  have  rusted  to  the  heart,  and  be- 
come brown  oxide  of  iron,  and  mingled  with  the 
indiscriminate  clay.  All,  all,  has  vanished;  in 
very  deed  and  truth,  like  that  baseless  fabric  of 
Prospero's  air- vision.  Of  the  Mitre  Tavern  noth- 
ing but  the  bare  walls  remain  there;  of  London, 
of  England,  of  the  World,  nothing  but  the  bare 
walls  remain;  and  these  also  decaying,  (were 
they  of  adamant,)  only  slower.  The  mysterious 
River  of  Existence  rushes  on:  a  new  Billow 
thereof  has  arrived,  and  lashes  wildly  as  ever 
round  the  old  embankments;  but  the  former  Bil- 
low with  its  loud,  mad  eddyings,  where  is  it?— 
Where?  —  Now  this  Book  of  Boswell's,  this  is 
precisely  a  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Destiny; 
so  that  Time  shall  not  utterly,  not  so  soon  by  sev- 
eral centuries,  have  dominion  over  us.  A  little 
row  of  Naphtha-lamps,  with  its  line  of  Naptha- 
Ught   burns   clear   and   holy   through   the   dead 

222 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


Night  of  the  Past:  they  who  are  gone  are  still 
here;  though  hidden  they  are  revealed,  though 
dead  they  yet  speak.  There  it  shines,  that  little 
miraculously  lamp-lit  Pathway;  shedding  its 
feebler  and  feebler  twilight  into  the  boundless 
dark  Oblivion,  for  that  that  our  Johnson  touched 
has  become  illuminated  for  us:  on  which  miracu- 
lous little  Pathway  we  can  still  travel,  and  see 
wonders. 


vm 

MIGHT  BURNS  HAVE  BEEN  SAVED" 

Contemplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns  and  how 
he  sank  unaided  by  any  real  help,  uncheered  by 
any  wise  sympathy,  generous  minds  have  some- 
times figured  to  themselves,  with  a  reproachful  sor- 
row, that  much  might  liave  been  done  for  him — 
that  by  counsel,  true  affection,  and  friendly  min- 
istrations, he  might  have  been  saved  to  himself 
and  the  world.  We  question  whether  there  is  not 
more  tenderness  of  heart  than  soundness  of  judg- 
ment in  these  suggestions.  It  seems  dubious  to 
us  whether  the  richest,  wisest,  most  benevolent 
individual  could  have  lent  Burns  any  effectual 
help.  Counsel,  which  seldom  profits  any  one,  he 
did  not  need:  in  his  understanding  he  knew  right 
from  wrong  as  well  perhaps  as  any  man  ever 
did;  but  the  persuasion,  which  would  have 
availed  him,  lies  not  so  much  in  the  head  as  in 

10  From  the  essay  on  Burns  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh 
Rew«^v    Id    1828. 

223 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

tlie  heart,  where  no  argument  or  expostulation 
could  have  assisted  much  to  implant  it.  As  t« 
money,  again,  we  do  rvot  really  believe  that  thia 
was  his  essential  want,  or  well  see  how  any  pri- 
vate man  eould,  even  presupposing  Burns 's  con- 
sent, have  bestowed  on  him  an  independent  for- 
tune, with  much  prospect  of  decisive  advantage. 
It  is  a  mortifying  truth,  that  two  men  in  any 
rank  of  society  eould  hardly  be  found  virtuous 
enough  to  give  money,  and  to  take  it  as  a  neces- 
sary gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral  entireness 
of  one  or  both.  But  so  stands  the  fact:  friend- 
ship, in  the  old  heroic  sense  of  that  term,  no 
longer  exists,  except  in  the  cases  of  kindred  or 
other  legal  affinity;  it  is  in  reality  no  longer  ex- 
pected or  recognized  as  a  virtue  among  men.  A 
close  observer  of  manners  has  pronounced  "pat- 
ronage," that  is  pecuniary  or  other  economic 
furtherance,  to  be  "twice  cursed,"  cursing  him 
that  gives  and  him  that  takes!  And  thus  in 
regard  to  outward  mattei-s  also,  it  has  become 
the  rule,  as  in  regard  to  inward  it  always  was 
and  must  bo  the  rule,  that  no  one  shall  look  for 
effectual  help  to  another,  but  that  each  shall  rest 
contented  with  what  help  he  can  afford  himself. 
Such,  we  say,  is  the  principle  of  modern  honor — 
naturally  enough  growing  O'ut  of  that  sentiment 
of  pride  which  we  inculcate  and  encourage  as  the 
basis  of  our  whole  social  morality.  Many  a  poet 
has  been  poorer  than  Burns,  but  no  one  was  ever 
prouder:  we  may  question  whether,  without  great 
precautions,  even  a  pension  from  royalty  would 
not  have  galled  and  encumbered  more  than  actu- 
ally assisted  him. 

Still  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join 

224 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


with  another  class  of  Burns 's  admirers,  who  ac- 
cuse the  higher  ranks  among  us  of  having  ruined 
Burns  by  their  selfish  neglect  of  him.  We  have 
already  stated  our  doubts  whether  direct  pecu- 
niary help,  had  it  been  offered,  would  have  been 
accepted,  or  could  have  proved  very  effectual. 
We  shall  readily  admit,  however,  that  much  was 
to  be  done  for  Burns;  that  many  a  poisoned  ar- 
row might  have  been  warded  from  his  bosom; 
many  an  entanglement  in  his  path  cut  asunder 
by  the  hand  of  the  powerful;  and  light  and  heat 
shed  on  him  fi'om  high  places  "would  have  made 
his  humble  atmosphere  more  genial;  and  the 
softest  heart  then  breathing  might  have  lived 
and  died  with  some  fewer  pangs.  Nay,  we  shall 
grant  further,  and  for  Burns,  it  is  gi-anting  much, 
that  with  all  his  pride  he  would  have  thanked, 
even  with  exaggerated  gi-atitude,  any  one  who 
had  cordially  befriended  him:  patronage,  unless 
once  cursed,  needed  not  to  have  been  twice  so. 
At  all  events,  the  poor  promotion  he  desired  in 
his  calling  might  have  been  granted :  it  was  his 
own  scheme,  therefore,  likelier  than  any  other  to 
be  of  service.  All  this  it  might  have  been  a 
luxury — nay,  it  was  a  duty,  for  our  nobility  to 
have  done.  No  part  of  all  this,  however,  did  any 
of  them  do  or  apparently  attempt,  or  wish  to  do: 
so  much  is  granted  against  them. 

But  what  then  is  the  amount  of  their  blame? 
Simply  that  they  were  men  of  the  world,  and 
walked  by  the  principles  of  such  men;  that  they 
treated  Burns  as  other  nobles  and  other  com- 
moners had  done  other  poets;  as  the  English  did 
Shakespeare;  as  King  Charles  and  his  cavaliers 
did  Butler;  as  King  Philip  and  his  Grandees  did 

V— 15  225 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

Cervantes.  Do  men  gather  grapes  of  thorns?  or 
shall  we  cut  down  our  thorns  for  yielding  only 
a  fence  and  haws?  How  indeed,  could  the  ''no- 
bility and  gentry  of  his  native  land"  hold  out 
any  help  to  this  "Scottish  bard,  proud  of  his 
name  and  country"?  Were  the  nobility  and  gen- 
ti'y  so  much  as  able  rightly  to  help  themselves? 
Had  they  not  their  game  to  preserve,  their  bor- 
ough interests  to  strengthen;  dinner,  therefore, 
of  various  kinds,  to  eat  and  give?  Were  their 
means  more  than  adequate  to  all  this  business, 
or  less  than  adequate?  Less  than  adequate  in 
general :  few  of  them  in  reality  were  richer  than 
Burns ;  many  of  them  were  poorer :  for  sometimes 
they  had  to  wring  their  supplies,  as  with  thumb- 
screws, from  the  hard  hand,  and,  in  their  need  of 
guineas,  to  forget  their  duty  of  mercy,  which 
Burns  was  never  reduced  to  do.  Let  us  pity  and 
forgive  them.  The  game  they  preserved  and 
shot,  the  dinners  they  ate  and  gave,  the  borough 
interests  they  strengthened,  the  little  Babylon 
they  severally  builded  by  the  glory  of  their 
might,  are  all  melted,  or  melting  back  into  the 
primeval  chaos,  as  man 's  merely  selfish  endeavors 
are  fated  to  do:  and  here  was  an  action  ex- 
tending, in  virtue  of  its  worldly  influence,  we 
may  say,  through  all  time — in  virtue  of  its  moral 
nature,  beyond  all  time,  being  immortal  as  the 
Spirit  of  Goodness  itself:  this  action  was  offered 
them  to  do,  and  light  was  not  given  them  to  do 
it.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  But,  better 
than  pity,  let  us  go  and  do  otherwise.  Human 
suffering  did  not  end  with  the  life  of  Burns; 
neither  was  the  solemn  mandate,  "Love  one  an- 
other, bear  one  another's  burdens,"  given  to  the 

226 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


ri?h  only,  but  to  all  men.  True,  we  shall  find  no 
Burns  to  relieve,  to  assuage  by  our  aid  or  pity: 
but  celestial  natures,  groaning  under  the  fardels 
of  a  weary  life,  we  shall  still  find;  and  that 
wretchedness  Avhich  Fate  has  rendered  voiceless 
and  tuneless,  is  not  the  least  wretched,  but  the 
most. 

Still  we  do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Bunis's 
failure  lies  chiefly  with  the  world.  The  wodd, 
it  seems  to  us,  treated  him  with  more,  rather 
than  with  less  kindness,  than  it  usually  shows  to 
such  men.  It  has  ever,  we  fear,  shown  but  small 
favor  to  its  teachers:  hunger  and  nakedness,  per- 
ils and  reviling,  the  prison,  the  cross,  the  poison- 
chalice,  have  in  most  times  and  countries,  been 
the  market-place  it  has  offered  for  wisdom,  the 
welcome  with  which  it  has  greeted  those  who 
have  come  to  enlighten  and  purify  it.  Homer 
and  Socrates  and  the  Christian  apostles  belong  to 
old  days,  but  the  world's  martyrology  was  not 
completed  with  these.  Roger  Bacon  and  Galileo 
languish  in  priestly  dungeons,  Tasso  pines  in  the 
cell  of  a  madhouse,  Camoens  dies  begging  on  the 
streets  of  Lisbon.  So  neglected,  so  ''persecuted 
they  the  prophets,"  not  in  Judea  only,  but  in  all 
places  where  men  have  been.  We  reckon  that 
every  poet  of  Burns 's  order  is,  or  should  be,  a 
prophet  and  teacher  to  his  age — that  he  has  no 
right  therefore,  to  expect  great  kindness  from  it, 
but  rather  is  bound  to  do  it  great  kindness — that 
Burns,  in  particular,  experienced  fully  the  usual 
proportion  of  the  world's  goodness,  and  that  the 
blame  of  his  failure,  as  we  have  said,  lies  not 
chiefly  with  the  world. 

Where   then  does  it  lie?     We  are  forced  to 


287 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

answer,  With  himself;  it  is  his  inward,  not  his 
outward  misfortunes,  that  bring  him  to  the  dust. 
Seldom  indeed  is  it  otherwise — seldom  is  a  life 
morally  wrecked,  but  the  grand  cause  lies  in 
some  internal  mal-arrangement,  some  want  less 
of  good  fortune  than  of  good  guidance.  Nature 
fashions  no  creature  without  implanting  in  it  the 
strength  needful  for  its  action  and  duration: 
least  of  all  does  she  so  neglect  her  masterpiece 
and  darling,  the  poetic  soul.  Neither  can  we  be- 
lieve that  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  external  cir- 
cumstances utterly  to  ruin  the  mind  of  a  man — 
nay,  if  proper  wisdom  be  given  him,  even  so 
much  as  to  affect  its  essential  health  and  beauty. 
The  sternest  sum-total  of  all  worldly  misfortunes 
is  death — nothing  more  can  lie  in  the  cup  of 
human  woe:  yet  many  men,  in  all  ages,  have 
triumphed  over  death,  and  led  it  captive,  con- 
verting its  physical  victory  into  a  moral  victory 
for  themselves,  into  a  seal  and  immortal  con- 
secration for  all  that  their  past  life  had  achieved. 
What  has  been  done  may  be  done  again — nay, 
it  is  but  the  degree  and  not  the  kind  of  such 
heroism  that  differs  in  different  seasons;  for 
without  some  portion  of  this  spirit,  not  of  bois- 
terous daring,  but  of  silent  fearlessness,  of  self- 
denial,  in  all  its  forms,  no  good  man,  in  any  scene 
or  time,  has  ever  attained  to  be  good. 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns, 
and  mourned  over  it  rather  than  blamed  it.  It 
was  the  want  of  unity  in  his  purposes,  of  con- 
sistency in  his  aims,  the  hapless  attempt  to  min- 
gle in  friendly  union  the  common  spirit  of  the 
world  with  the  spirit  of  poetry,  which  is  of  a 
far  different  and  altogether  irreconcilable  nature. 

228 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


Burns  was  nothing  wholly,  and  Burns  could  be 
nothing — no  man  formed  as  he  was  can  be  any- 
thing by  halves.  The  heart,  not  of  a  mere  hot- 
blooded,  popular  verse  monger,  or  poetical  Res- 
taurateur, but  of  a  true  poet  and  singer,  worthy 
of  the  old  religious  heroic  times,  had  been  given 
him :  and  he  fell  in  an  age,  not  of  heroism  and 
religion,  but  of  scepticism,  selfishness  and  trivi- 
ality, when  true  nobleness  was  little  understood, 
and  its  place  supplied  by  a  hollow,  dissocial, 
altogether  barren  and  unfruitful  principle  of 
pride.  The  influences  of  that  age,  his  open,  kind, 
susceptible  nature,  to  say  nothing  of  his  highly 
untoward  situation,  made  it  more  than  usually 
difficult  for  him  to  repel  or  resist :  the  better 
spirit  that  was  within  him  ever  sternly  demanded 
its  rights,  its  supremacy:  he  spent  his  life  in 
endeavoring  to  reconcile  these  two,  and  lost  it, 
as  he  must  have  lost  it,  without  reconciling  them 
here. 

Burns  was  born  poor,  and  born  also  to  con- 
tinue poor,  for  he  would  not  endeavor  to  be  oth- 
erwise: this  it  had  been  well  could  he  have  once 
for  all  admitted  and  considered  as  finally  settled. 
He  was  poor,  truly;  but  hundreds  even  of  his 
own  class  and  order  of  minds  have  been  poorer, 
yet  have  suffered  nothing  deadly  from  it — nay, 
his  own  father  had  a  far  sorer  battle  with  un- 
grateful destiny  than  his  was;  and  he  did  not 
yield  to  it,  but  died  courageously  warring,  and 
to  all  moral  intents  prevailing  against  it.  True, 
Burns  had  little  means,  had  even  little  time  for 
poetry,  his  only  real  pursuit  and  vocation;  but 
80  much  the  more  precious  was  what  little  he 
had.    In  all  these  external  respects  bis  case  was 

229 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   Vx^ORLD'S   CLASSICS 

hard,  but  very  far  from  the  hardest.  Poverty, 
incessant  drudgery,  and  much  worse  evils,  it  has 
often  been  the  lot  of  poets  and  wise  men  to  strive 
with,  and  their  glory  to  conquer.  Locke  was  ban- 
ished as  a  traitor,  and  wrote  his  *  *  Essay  on  tiae  Hu- 
man Understanding, ' '  sheltering  himself  in  a  Dutch 
garret.  Was  Milton  I'ich  or  at  his  ease  when  he 
composed  "Paradise  Lost"?  Not  only  low,  but 
fallen  from  a  height;  not  only  poor,  but  impov- 
erished :  in  darkness  and  with  dangers  compassed 
round,  he  sang  his  immortal  song,  and  found  fit 
audience,  though  few.  Did  not  Cervantes  finish 
his  work  a  maimed  soldier,  and  in  prison?  Nay, 
was  not  the  *'Araucana,"  which  Spain  acknowl- 
edges as  its  epic,  written  without  even  the  aid 
of  paper;  on  scraps  of  leather,  as  the  stout 
fighter  and  voyager  snatched  any  moment  from 
that  wild  warfare? 

And  what  then  had  these  men  which  Burns 
•wanted?  Two  things;  both  which  it  seems  to  us 
are  indispensable  for  such  men:  they  had  a  true 
religious  principle  of  morals,  and  a  single  not  a 
double  aim  in  their  activity.  They  were  not  self- 
seekers  and  self-worshippers,  but  seekers  and 
worshippers  of  something  far  better  than  self. 
Not  personal  enjoyment  was  their  object;  but  a 
high  heroic  idea  of  religion,  of  patriotism,  of 
heavenly  wisdom,  in  one  or  the  other  form,  ever 
hovered  before  them ;  in  which  cause  they  neither 
shrunk  from  suffering,  nor  called  on  the  earth 
to  witness  it  as  something  wonderful,  but  pati- 
ently endured,  counting  it  blessedness  enough  so 
to  spend  and  be  spent.  Thus  the  "golden  calf 
of  self-love,"  however  curiously  carved,  was  not 
their  Deity,  but  the  Invisible  Goodness,  which 

230 


THOMAS  CARLYLE 


alone  is  man's  reasonable  sennce.  This  feeling 
was  as  a  celestial  fountain,  "whose  streamy  re- 
freshed into  gladness  and  beauty  all  the  prov- 
inces of  their  otherwise  too  desolate  existence. 
In  a  "word,  they  willed  one  thing,  to  which  all 
other  things  were  subordinated  and  made  sub- 
servient, and  therefore  they  accomplished  it.  The 
wedge  will  rend  rocks,  but  its  edge  must  be  sharp 
and  single :  if  it  be  double  the  wedge  is  bruised. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  per- 
verseness,  but  not  in  others — only  in  himself; 
least  of  all  in  simple  increase  of  wealth  and 
worldly  ''respectability."  We  hope  we  have 
now  heard  enough  about  the  efficacy  of  wealth 
for  poeti*y  and  to  make  poets  happy.  Nay,  have 
we  not  seen  another  instance  of  it  in  these  very 
days?  Byron,  a  man  of  an  endowment  consid- 
erably less  ethereal  than  that  of  Burns,  is  born 
in  the  rank  not  of  a  Scottish  ploughman,  but  of 
an  English  peer:  the  highest  worldly  honors,  the 
fairest  v/orldly  career,  are  his  by  inheritance: 
the  richest  harvest  of  fame  he  soon  reaps,  in  an- 
other province,  by  his  own  hand.  And  what  does 
all  this  avail  him?  Is  he  happy,  is  he  good,  is 
he  true?  Alas,  he  has  a  poet's  soul,  and  strives 
toward  the  infinite  and  the  eternal;  and  soon 
feels  that  all  this  is  but  mounting  to  the  house- 
top to  reach  the  stars!  Like  Burns,  he  is  only  a 
proud  man;  might,  like  him,  have  "purchased  a 
pocket-copy  of  Milton  to  study  the  character  of 
Satan";  for  Satan  also  is  Byron's  grand  ex- 
emular.  the  hero  of  his  poetry,  and  the  model 
apparently  of  his  conduct.  As  in  Burns's  case, 
too,  the  celestial  element  will  not  mingle  with  the 
play  of  earth;  both  poet  and  man  of  the  world  he 


231 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

must  not  be;  vulgar  ambition  will  not  live  kindly 
with  poetic  adoration;  he  cannot  serve  God  and 
Mammon.  Byron,  like  Burns,  is  not  happy;  nay, 
be  is  the  most  wretched  of  all  men.  His  life  is 
falsely  arranged:  the  fire  that  is  in  him  is  not 
a  strong,  still,  central  fire,  warming  into  beauty 
the  products  of  a  world,  but  it  is  the  mad  fire 
of  a  volcano;  and  now — we  look  sadly  into  the 
ashes  of  a  crater,  which,  erelong,  will  fill  itself 
v.'ith  snow! 


LORD  MACAULAY 

Bom  in  1800,  died  in  1859;  educated  at  Cambridge;  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar  in  1826;  member  of  Parliament,  1830-34; 
member  of  the  Supreme  Council  in  India,  1834-38 ;  member 
of  Parliament,  1839-47;  Secretary  of  War,  1839-41;  pay- 
master-general, 1846-47;  again  in  Parliament  in  1852; 
raised  to  the  peerage  in  1857;  his  "History  of  England" 
published  in  1848-61;  his  "Lays  of  Ancient  Rome"  in  1842. 


PURITANS  AND  ROYALISTS* 

"We  would  speak  first  of  the  Puritans,  the  most 
vemarkable  body  of  men,  periiaps,  "which  the 
^orld  has  ever  produced.  The  odious  and  ridicu- 
lous parts  of  their  character  lie  on  the  surface. 
He  that  runs  may  read  them;  nor  have  there  been 
wanting  attentive  and  malicious  observers  to 
point  them  out.  For  many  years  after  the 
Restoration  they  were  the  theme  of  unmeasured 
invective  and  derision.  They  were  exposed  to 
the  utmost  licentiousness  of  the  press  and  of  the 
stage,  at  the  time  when  the  press  and  the  stage 
were  most  licentious.  They  were  not  men  of 
letters;  they  were,  as  a  body,  unpopular;  they 
could  not  defend  themselves;  and  the  public 
would  not  take  them  under  its  protection.  They 
were  therefore  abandoned,  without  reserve,  to  the 

*  From  the  essay  on  Milton,  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh 
Review  of  August,  1825,  when  the  author  was  only  twenty- 
fire  years  old. 

233 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

tender  mercies  of  the  satirists  and  dramatists. 
The  ostentatious  simplicity  of  their  dress,  their 
30ur  aspect,  their  nasal  twang,  their  stiff  pK)sture, 
their  long  graces,  their  Hebrew  names,  their 
scriptural  phrases  which  they  introduced  on  every 
occasion,  their  contempt  of  human  learning,  their 
detestation  of  polite  amusements,  were  indeed 
fair  game  for  the  laughers.  But  it  is  not  from 
the  laughers  alone  that  the  philosophy  of  history 
is  to  be  learned.  And  he  who  approaches  this 
subject  should  carefully  guard  against  the  in- 
fluence of  that  potent  ridicule  which  has  already 
mislead  so  many  excellent  writers. 

Ecco  il  fonte  del  riso,  ed  ecco  il  no 
Che  mortah  perigli  in  se  contiene 

Hor  qui  tener  a  fren  nostro  desio, 
Ed  esser  cauti  molto  a  noi  conviene. 

Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance; 
who  directed  their  measures  through  a  long 
series  of  eventful  years;  who  formed,  out  of 
the  most  unpromising  materials,  the  finest  army 
that  Europe  had  ever  seen;  who  trampled  down 
king,  Church,  and  aristocracy;  who  in  the  short 
intervals  of  domestic  sedition  and  rebellion,  made 
the  name  of  England  terrible  to  every  nation  on 
the  face  of  the  earth — were  no  vulgar  fanatics. 
Most  of  their  absurdities  were  mere  external 
badges,  like  the  signs  of  freemasonry  or  the 
dresses  of  friars.  We  regret  that  these  badges 
were  not  more  attractive.  We  regret  that  a 
body  to  whose  courage  and  talents  mankind  has 
owed  inestimable  obligations  had  not  the  lofty 
elegance  which  distinguished  some  of  the  ad- 
herents of  Chai'les  tho  First,  or  the  easy  good- 

234 


LORD  MACAULAY 


breeding  for  which  the  court  of  Charles  the 
Second  was  celebrated.  But,  if  we  must  make 
our  choice,  we  shall,  like  Bassanio  in  the  play, 
turn  from  the  specious  caskets  which  contain  onlv 
the  Death's  head  and  the  Fool's  head,  and  fix  on 
the  plain  leaden  chest  which  conceals  the  treasure. 
The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  de- 
rived a  peculiar  character  from  the  daily  con- 
templation of  superior  beings  and  eternal  in- 
terests. Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in 
general  terms,  an  overruling  Providence,  they 
habitually  ascribed  every  event  to  the  will  of 
the  Great  Being  for  whose  power  nothing  was 
too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too 
minute.  To  know  Him,  to  serve  Him,  to  enjoy  Him, 
was  with  them  the  greatest  end  of  existence.  They 
rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage 
other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of 
the  soul.  Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses 
of  the  Deity  through  an  obscuring  veil,  they 
aspired  to  gaze  full  on  His  intolerable  brightness, 
and  to  commune  with  Him  face  to  face.  Hence 
originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial  dis- 
tinctions. The  difference  between  the  greatest 
and  the  meanest  of  mankind  seemed  to  vanish 
when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval 
which  separated  the  whole  race  from  Him  on 
whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixt.  They 
recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  His  favor; 
and,  confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  all  the 
accomplishments  and  all  the  dignities  of  the 
world.  If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the 
works  of  philosophers  and  poets,  they  were 
deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  If  their 
names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds. 


235 


THE   BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If  their 
steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train 
of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had 
charge  over  them.  Their  palaces  were  houses 
not  made  with  hands;  their  diadems  crowns  of 
glory  which  should  never  fade  away.  On  the 
rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests, 
they  looked  down  with  contempt,  for  they  es- 
teemed themselves  rich  in  a  more  precious 
treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sublime 
language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an  early 
creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a 
mightier  hand.  The  very  meanest  of  them  was 
a  being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible 
importance  belonged;  on  whose  slightest  action 
the  spirits  of  light  and  darkness  looked  with 
anxious  interest;  who  had  been  destined,  before 
heaven  and  earth  were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity 
which  should  continue  when  heaven  and  earth 
should  have  passed  away.  Events  which  short- 
sighted politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes 
had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake 
empires  had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed. 
Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two 
different  men,  the  one  all  self-abasement, 
penitence,  gratitude,  passion,  the  other  proud, 
calm,  inflexible,  sagacious.  He  prostrated  him- 
self in  the  dust  before  his  Maker;  but  he  set 
his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devo- 
tional retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions, 
and  groans,  and  tears.  He  was  half-maddened 
by  gloi'ious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the 
lyres  of  angels,  or  the  tempting  whispers  of 
fiends.  He  caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific 
Vision,   or    awoke,   screaming,   from    dreams    of 

236 


LORD  MACAULAY 


everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought  himself 
intrusted  with  the  scepter  of  the  millennial  year. 
Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
soul  that  God  had  hidden  His  face  from  him. 
But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt 
on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous  workings 
of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind 
them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  Godly 
but  their  uncouth  visages,  and  heard  nothing 
from  them  but  their  gjoans  and  their  whining 
hymns,  might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had 
little  reason  to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in 
the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field  of  battle.  These 
fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs  a 
coolness  of  judgment  and  immutability  of  pur- 
pose which  some  writers  have  thought  incon- 
sistent with  their  religious  zeal,  but  which  were 
in  fact  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  in- 
tensity of  their  feelings  on  one  subject  made 
them  tranquil  on  every  other.  One  overpowering 
sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself  pity  and  hatred, 
ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost  its  terrors 
and  pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles 
and  their  tears,  their  raptures  and  their  sor- 
rows, but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world. 
Enthusiasm  had  made  them  stoics,  had  cleared 
their  minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and 
prejudice,  and  raised  them  above  the  influence 
of  danger  and  of  corruption.  It  sometimes  might 
lead  them  to  pursue  unwise  ends,  but  never  to 
choose  unwise  means.  They  went  through  the 
world,  like  Sir  Artegal's  iron  man  Talus  with 
his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling  down  opn 
pressors,  mingling  with  human  beings,  but  having 
neither   part   nor   lot   in   human   infirmities,   in- 

237 


THE   BEST   OF   THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

sensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain, 
not  to  be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  nor  to  be 
withstood  by  any  barrier. 

Such  "we  believe  to  have  been  the  character 
of  the  Puritans.  We  perceive  the  absurdity  of 
their  manners.  We  dislike  the  sullen  gloom  of 
their  domestic  habits.  We  acknowledge  that  the 
tone  of  their  minds  was  often  injured  by  strain- 
ing after  things  too  high  for  mortal  reach;  and 
we  know  that,  in  spite  of  their  hatred  of  popery, 
they  too  often  fell  into  the  worst  vices  of  that 
bad  system,  intolerance  and  extravagant  aus- 
terity, that  they  had  their  anchorites  and  their 
crusades,  their  Dunstans  and  their  De  Montforts, 
their  Dominies  and  their  Escobars.  Yet,  when 
all  cii'cumstances  are  taken  into  consideration, 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  them  a  brave, 
a  wise,  an  honest,  and  a  useful  body. 


n 

CROMWELL'S  ARMY' 

The  army  which  now  became  supreme  in  the 
state  was  an  army  very  different  from  any  that 
has  since  been  seen  among  us.  At  present  the 
pay  of  the  common  soldier  is  not  such  as  can 
seduce  any  but  the  humblest  class  of  English 
laborers  from  their  calling.  A  barrier  almost 
impassable  separates  him  from  the  commissioned 
officer.  The  great  majority  of  those  who  rise 
high  in  the  service  rise  by  purchase.     So  numer- 

•From   Chapter  I  of  the   "History  of  England." 

238 


LORD  MACAULAY 


ous  and  extensive  are  the  remote  dependencies 
of  England,  that  every  man  who  enlists  in  the 
line  must  expect  to  pass  many  years  in  exile, 
and  some  years  in  climates  unfavorable  to  the 
health  and  vigor  of  the  European  race.  The 
army  of  the  Long  Parliament  was  raised  for 
home  ser\-ice.  The  pay  of  the  private  soldier 
was  much  above  the  wages  earned  by  the  gi'eat 
body  of  the  people;  and,  if  he  distinguished 
himself  by  intelligence  and  courage,  he  might 
hope  to  attain  high  commands.  The  ranks  were 
accordingly  composed  of  persons  superior  in 
station  and  education  to  the  multitude.  These 
persons,  sober,  moral,  diligent,  and  accustomed 
to  reflect,  had  been  induced  to  take  up  arms, 
not  by  the  pressure  of  want,  not  by  the  love  of 
novelty  and  license,  not  by  the  arts  of  recruiting 
oflicers,  but  by  religious  and  political  zeal, 
mingled  with  the  desire  of  distinction  and  pro- 
motion. The  boast  of  the  soldiers,  as  wo  find 
it  recorded  in  their  solemn  resolutions,  was  that 
they  had  not  been  forced  into  the  service,  no! 
had  enlisted  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  lucre,  that 
they  were  no  Janizaries,  but  free-born  English- 
men, who  had,  of  their  own  accord,  put  their 
lives  in  jeopardy  for  the  liberties  and  religion 
of  England,  and  whose  right  and  duty  it  was  to 
watch  over  the  welfare  of  the  nation  which  they 
had  saved. 

A  force  thus  composed  might,  without  injury 
to  its  efiiciency,  be  indulged  in  some  liberties 
which,  if  allowed  to  any  other  troops,  would 
have  proved  subversive  of  all  discipline.  In 
general,  soldiers  who  should  form  themselves 
into    political    clubs,    elect    delegates,    and    pass 

239 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

resolutions  on  high  questions  of  state,  would  soon 
break  loose  from  all  control,  would  cease  to  form 
an  army  and  would  become  the  worst  and  most 
dangerous  of  mobs.  Nor  would  it  be  safe,  in 
our  time,  to  tolerate  in  any  regiment  religious 
meetings  at  which  a  corporal  versed  in  Scripture 
should  lead  the  devotions  of  his  less  gifted 
colonel,  and  admonish  a  backsliding  major. 
But  such  was  the  intelligence,  the  gravity,  and 
the  self-command  of  the  warriors  whom  Crom- 
well had  trained,  that  in  their  camp  a  political 
organization  and  a  religious  organization  could 
exist  without  destrojdng  military  organization. 
The  same  men,  who,  off  duty,  were  noted  as 
demagogs  and  field-preachers,  were  distinguished 
by  steadiness,  by  the  spirit  of  order,  and  by 
prompt  obedience  on  watch,  on  drill,  and  on  the 
field  of  battle. 

In  war  this  strange  force  was  irresistible.  Th 
stubborn  courage  characteristic  of  the  English 
people  was,  by  the  system  of  Cromwell,  at  once 
regulated  and  stimulated.  Other  leaders  have 
maintained  order  as  strict.  Other  leaders  have 
inspired  their  followers  with  zeal  as  ardent.  But 
in  his  camp  alone  the  most  rigid  discipline  was 
found  in  company  with  the  fiercest  enthusiasm. 
His  troops  moved  to  victory  with  the  precision 
of  machines,  while  burning  with  the  wildest  fa- 
naticism of  Crusaders.  From  the  time  when  the 
army  was  remodeled  to  the  time  when  it  was 
disbanded,  it  never  found,  either  in  the  British 
islands  or  on  the  Conlinent,  an  enemy  who  could 
stand  its  onset.  In  England,  Scotland,  Ireland, 
Flanders,  the  Puritan  warriors,  often  surrounded 
by    difiiculties,     sometimes     contending    against 

240 


LORD  MACAULAY 


threefold  odds,  not  only  never  failed  to  conquer, 
but  never  failed  to  destroy  and  break  in  pieces 
whatever  force  was  opposed  to  them.  They  at 
length  came  to  regard  the  day  of  battle  as  a  day 
of  certain  triumph,  and  marched  against  the 
rtjost  renowned  battalions  of  Europe  with  dis- 
dainful confidence.  Turenne  was  startled  by  the 
shout  of  stern  e.xultation  with  which  his  English 
allies  advanced  to  the  combat,  and  exprest  the 
delight  of  a  true  soldier  when  he  learned  that 
it  was  ever  the  fashion  of  Cromwell's  pikemen 
to  rejoice  greatly  when  they  beheld  the  enemy; 
and  the  banished  Cavaliers  felt  an  emotion  of 
national  pride  when  they  saw  a  brigade  of  their 
countrymen,  outnumbered  bj'  foes  and  abandoned 
by  friends,  drive  before  it  in  headlong  rout  the 
finest  infantry  of  Spain,  and  force  a  passage 
into  a  counterscrap  which  had  just  been  pro- 
nounced impregnable  by  the  ablest  of  the  mar- 
shals of  France. 

But  that  which  chiefly  distinguished  the  army 
of  Cromwell  from  other  armies  was  the  austere 
morality  and  the  fear  of  God  which  per\'aded 
all  ranks.  It  is  acknowledged  by  the  most  zealous 
Royalists  that,  in  that  singular  camp,  no  oath 
was  heard,  no  drunkenness  or  gambling  was  seen, 
and  that,  during  the  long  dominion  of  the  sol- 
diery, the  property  of  the  peaceable  citizen  and 
the  honor  of  woman  were  held  sacred.  If  out- 
rages were  committed,  they  were  outrages  of  a 
very  different  kind  from  those  of  which  a  vic- 
torious army  is  generally  guilty.  No  servant-girl 
complained  of  the  rough  gallantry  of  the  redcoats. 
Not  an  ounce  of  plate  was  taken  from  the  shops 
of  the  goldsmiths.     But   a  Pelagian  sermon,  or 


V— 16  241 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  CLASSICS 
■  '« 

a  window  on  which  the  Virgin  and  the  Child 
were  painted,  produced  in  the  Puritan  ranks  an 
excitement  which  it  required  the  utmost  exer- 
tions of  the  officers  to  quell.  One  of  Cromwell's 
chief  difficulties  was  to  restrain  his  musketeers 
and  dragoons  from  invading  by  main  force  the 
pulpits  of  ministers  whose  discourses,  to  use  the 
language  of  that  time,  were  not  savory;  and 
too  many  of  our  cathedrals  still  bear  the  marks 
of  the  hatred  with  which  those  stern  spirits  re- 
garded every  vestige  of  Popery. 


m 

THE  OPENING  OF  THE  TRIAL  OF 
WARREN  HASTINGS' 

In  the  mean  time,  the  preparations  for  the 
trial  had  proceeded  rapidly;  and  on  the  thir- 
teenth of  February,  1788,  the  sittings  of  the 
Court  commenced.  There  have  been  spectacles 
more  dazzling  to  the  eye,  more  gorgeous  with 
jewelry  and  cloth  of  gold,  more  attractive  to 
grown-up  children,  than  that  which  was  then 
exhibited  at  Westminster;  but  perhaps  there 
never  was  a  spectacle  so  well  calculated  to  strike 
a  highly  cultivated,  a  reflecting,  an  imaginative 
mind.  All  the  various  kinds  of  interest  which 
belong  to  the  near  and  to  the  distant,  to  the 
present  and  to  the  past,  were  collected  on  one 

« From  the  essay  on  Hastings,  contributed  to  the  Edi*' 
burgh  Eeview  in   1841. 

243 


LORD  MACAULAY 


spot  and  in  one  hour.  All  the  talents  and  all 
the  accomplisliraents  which  are  developed  by  lib- 
erty and  civilization  were  now  displayed,  with 
every  advantage  that  could  be  derived  both  from 
cooperation  and  from  contrast.  Every  step  in 
the  proceedings  carried  the  mind  either  back- 
ward, through  many  troubled  centuries,  to  the 
days  when  the  foundations  of  our  constitution 
were  laid ;  or  far  away,  over  boundless  seas  and 
deserts,  to  dusky  nations  living  under  strange 
stars,  worshiping  strange  gods,  and  writing 
strange  characters  from  right  to  left.  The  High 
Court  of  Parliament  was  to  sit,  according  to 
forms  handed  down  from  the  days  of  the  Plan- 
tagenets,  on  an  Englishman  accused  of  exercising 
tyranny  over  the  lord  of  the  holy  city  of  Benares, 
and  over  the  ladies  of  the  princely  house  of  Oude. 
The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It  was 
the  great  hall  of  William  Rufus,  the  hall  which 
had  resounded  with  acclamations  at  the  inau- 
guration of  thirty  kings,  the  hall  which  had  wit- 
nessed the  just  sentence  of  Bacon  and  the  just 
absolution  of  Somers,  the  hall  where  the  elo- 
quence of  Strafford  had  for  a  moment  awed 
and  melted  a  victorious  party  inflamed  with  just 
resentment,  the  hall  where  Charles  had  con- 
fronted the  High  Court  of  Justice  with  the  placid 
courage  which  has  half  redeemed  his  fame.  Nei- 
ther military  nor  civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The 
avenues  were  lined  with  grenadiers.  The  streets 
were  kept  clear  by  cavalry.  The  peers,  robed  in 
gold  and  ermine,  were  marshaled  by  the  heralds 
under  Garter  King-at-arms.  The  judges  in  their 
vestments  of  state  attended  to  give  advice  on 
points    of   lav/.      Near    a    hundred    and    seventy 

243 


THE  BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

lords,  three-fourths  of  the  Upper  House  as  the 
Upper  House  then  was,  walked  in  solemn  order 
from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tri- 
bunal. The  junior  baron  present  led  the  way — 
George  Elliot,  Lord  Heathfield,  recently  ennobled 
for  his  memorable  defense  of  Gibraltar  against 
the  fleets  and  armies  of  France  and  Spain.  The 
long  procession  was  closed  by  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk, Earl  Marshal  of  the  realm,  by  the  great 
dignitaries,  and  by  the  brothers  and  sons  of  the 
King.  Last  of  all  came  the  Prince  of  "Wales, 
conspicuous  by  his  fine  person  and  noble  bearing. 
The  gray  old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.  The 
long  galleries  were  crowded  by  an  audience  such 
as  has  rarely  excited  the  fears  or  the  emulations 
of  an  orator.  There  were  gathered  together, 
from  all  parts  of  a  great,  free,  enlightened,  and 
prosperous  empire,  grace  and  female  loveliness, 
wit  and  learning,  the  representatives  of  every 
science  and  of  eveiy  art.  There  were  seated 
round  the  Queen  the  fair-haired  young  daughters 
of  the  House  of  Brunswick.  There  the  ambas- 
sadors of  great  kings  and  commonwealths  gazed 
with  admiration  on  a  spectacle  which  no  other 
country  in  the  world  could  present.  There  Sid- 
dons,  in  the  prime  of  her  majestic  beauty,  looked 
with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing  all  the  im- 
itations of  the  stage.  There  the  historian  of 
the  Roman  Empire  thought  of  the  days  whea 
Cicero  pleaded  the  cause  of  Sicily  against  Verres, 
and  when,  before  a  Senate  which  still  retained 
some  show  of  freedom,  Tacitus  thundered  against 
the  oppressor  of  Africa.  There  were  seen  side 
by  side  the  greatest  painter  and  the  greatest 
scholar  of  the  age. 

244 


LORD  MACAULAY 


The  spectacle  had  allured  Reynolds  from  that 
easel  which  has  preserved  to  us  the  thoughtful 
foreheads  of  so  many  writers  and  statesmen,  and 
the  sweet  smiles  of  so  many  noble  matrons.  It 
had  induced  Parr  to  suspend  his  labors  in  that 
dark  and  profound  mine  from  which  he  had 
extracted  a  vast  treasure  of  erudition ;  a  treasure 
too  often  buried  in  the  earth,  too  often  paraded 
with  injudicious  and  inelegant  ostentation,  but 
still  precious,  mas&ive,  and  splendid.  There  ap- 
peared the  voluptuous  charms  of  her  to  whom 
the  heir  of  the  throne  had  in  secret  plighted  his 
faith.  There  too  was  she,  the  beautiful  mother 
of  a  beautiful  race,  the  St.  Cecilia  whose  delicate 
features,  lighted  up  by  love  and  music,  art  has 
rescued  from  the  common  decay.  There  were 
the  members  of  that  brilliant  society  which 
quoted,  criticized,  and  exchanged  repartees  under 
the  rich  peacock  hangings  of  Mrs.  Montague. 
And  there  the  ladies  whose  lips,  more  persuasive 
than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had  carried  the  West- 
minster election  against  palace  and  treasury, 
shone  around  Georgiana,  Duchess  of  Devonshire. 

The  sergeants  made  proclamation.  Hastings 
advanced  to  the  bar  and  bent  his  knee.  The 
culprit  was  indeed  not  unworthy  of  that  great 
presence.  He  had  ruled  an  extensive  and  pop- 
ulous country,  had  made  laws  and  treaties,  had 
sent  forth  armies,  had  set  up  and  pulled  down 
princes.  And  in  his  high  place  he  had  so  borne 
himself  that  all  had  feared  him,  that  most  had 
loved  him,  and  that  hatred  itself  could  deny  him 
no  title  to  glory  except  virtue.  He  looked  like 
a  great  man,  and  not  like  a  bad  man.  A  person 
small  and  emaciated,  yet  deriving  dignity  from  a 

245 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

carriage  which,  while  it  indicated  deference  to 
the  court,  indicated  also  habitual  self-possession 
and  self-respect,  a  high  and  intellectual  forehead, 
a  brow  pensive  but  not  gloomy,  a  mouth  of  in 
flexible  decision,  a  face  pale  and  worn  but  serene, 
on  which  was  written,  as  legibly  as  under  the 
picture  in  the  council-chamber  at  Calcutta,  Mens 
cequa  in  arduis:  such  was  the  aspect  with  which 
the  great  proconsul  presented  himself  to  his 
judges. 

His  counsel  accompanied  him — men  all  of 
whom  were  afterward  raised  by  their  talents 
and  learning  to  the  highest  posts  in  their  pro- 
fession: the  bold  and  strong-minded  Law,  after- 
ward Chief  Justice  of  the  King's  Bench;  the 
more  humane  and  eloquent  Dallas,  afterward 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas;  and  Plomer, 
who,  near  twenty  years  later,  successfully  con- 
ducted in  the  same  high  court  the  defense  of 
Lord  Melville,  and  subsequently  became  Vice- 
Chancellor  and  Master  of  the  Rolls. 

But  neither  the  culprit  nor  his  advocates  at- 
tracted so  much  notice  as  the  accusers.  In  the 
midst  of  the  blaze  of  red  drapery,  a  space  had 
been  fitted  up  with  green  benches  and  tables  for 
the  Commons.  The  managers,  with  Burke  at 
their  head,  appeared  in  full  dress.  The  collectors 
of  gossip  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  even  Fox, 
generally  so  regardless  of  his  appearance,  had 
paid  to  the  illustrious  tribunal  the  compliment 
of  wearing  a  bag  and  sword.  Pitt  had  refused 
to  be  one  of  the  conductors  of  the  impeachment; 
and  his  commanding,  copious,  and  sonorous  elo- 
quence was  wanting  to  that  gi-eat  muster  of 
various  talents.     Age  and  blindness  had  unfitted 

246 


LORD  MACAULAY 


Lord  North  for  the  duties  of  a  public  prosecutor; 
and  his  friends  were  left  without  the  help  of  his 
excellent  sense,  his  tact,  and  his  urbanity.  But 
in  spite  of  the  absence  of  these  two  distinguished 
members  of  the  Lower  House,  the  box  in  which 
the  managers  stood  contained  an  array  of  speak- 
ers such  as  perhaps  had  not  appeared  together 
since  the  great  age  of  Athenian  eloquence.  There 
were  Fox  and  Sheridan,  the  English  Demosthenes 
and  the  English  Hyperides.  There  was  Burke — 
ignorant  indeed,  or  negligent,  of  the  art  of 
adapting  his  reasonings  and  his  style  to  the 
capacity  and  taste  of  his  hearers,  but  in  ampli- 
tude of  comprehension  and  richness  of  imagina- 
tion superior  to  every  orator,  ancient  or  modern. 
There,  with  eyes  reverentially  fixt  on  Burke,  ap- 
peared the  finest  gentleman  of  the  age,  his  form 
developed  by  every  manly  exercise,  his  face 
beaming  with  intelligence  and  spirit — the  inge- 
nious, the  chivalrous,  the  high-souled  Windham. 
Nor,  tho  surrounded  by  such  men,  did  the  young- 
est manager  pass  unnoticed.  At  an  age  when 
most  of  those  who  distinguish  themselves  in  life 
are  still  contending  for  prizes  and  fellowships 
at  college  he  had  won  for  himself  a  conspicuous 
place  in  Parliament.  No  advantage  of  fortune 
or  connection  was  wanting  that  could  set  off  to 
the  height  his  splendid  talents  and  his  unblem- 
ished honor.  At  twenty-three  he  had  been 
thought  worthy  to  be  ranked  with  the  veteran 
statesmen  who  appeared  as  the  delegates  of  the 
British  Commons,  at  the  bar  of  the  British  nobili- 
ty. All  who  stood  at  that  bar,  save  him  alone, 
are  gone — culprit,  advocates,  accusers.  To  the 
generation  which  is  now  in  the  vigor  of  life,  he 

247 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

is  the  sole  representative  of  a  great  age  which 
has  passed  away.  But  those  who  within  the  last 
ten  years  have  listened  with  delight,  till  the 
morning  sun  shone  on  the  tapestries  of  the  House 
of  Lords,  to  the  lofty  and  animated  eloquence  of 
Charles,  Earl  Grey,  are  able  to  form  some  es- 
timate of  the  powers  of  a  race  of  men  among 
whom  he  was  not  the  foremost. 


IV 

THE  GIFT  OF  ATHENS  TO  MAN* 

If  we  consider  merely  the  subtlety  of  disquisi- 
tion, the  force  of  imagination,  the  perfect  energy 
and  elegance  of  expression,  which  characterize 
the  great  works  of  Athenian  genius,  we  must 
pronounce  them  intrinsically  most  valuable;  but 
what  shall  we  say  when  we  reflect  that  from 
these  had  sprung,  directly  or  indirectly,  all  the 
noblest  creations  of  the  human  intellect;  that 
from  hence  were  the  vast  accomplishments  and 
the  brilliant  fancy  of  Cicero,  the  withering  fire  of 
Juvenal;  the  plastic  imagination  of  Dante;  the 
humor  of  Cervantes;  the  comprehension  of  Ba- 
con, the  wit  of  Butler ;  the  supreme  and  universal 
excellence  of  Shakespeare?  All  the  triumphs  of 
truth  and  genius  over  prejudice  and  power,  in 
every  country  and  in  every  age,  have  been  the 
triumphs  of  Athens.  Wherever  a  few  great 
minds  have  made  a  stand  against  violence  and 

*From  the  essay  on  Mitford's  "History  of  Greece," 

248 


LORD  MACAULAY 


fraud,  in  the  cause  of  liberty  and  reason,  there 
has  been  her  spirit  iu  the  midst  of  them;  in- 
spiring, encouraging,  consoling — by  the  lonely 
lamp  of  Erasmus;  by  the  restless  bed  of  Pascal; 
in  the  ti-ibune  of  Mirabeau ;  in  the  cell  of  Galileo 
on  the  scaffold  of  Sidney.  But  who  shall  estimate 
her  influence  on  private  happiness?  Who  shall 
say  how  many  thousands  have  been  made  wiser, 
happier,  and  better  by  those  pursuits  in  which 
she  has  taught  mankind  to  engage;  to  how  many 
the  studies  which  took  their  rise  from  her  have 
been  wealth  in  poverty — liberty  in  bondage — 
health  in  sickness — society  in  solitude.  Her 
power  is  indeed  manifested  at  the  bar;  in  the 
senate;  in  the  field  of  battle;  in  the  schools  of 
philosophy.  But  these  are  not  her  glory,  "Wher- 
ever literature  consoles  sorrow,  or  assuages  pain 
— wherever  it  brings  gladness  to  eyes  which  fail 
with  wakefulness  and  tears,  and  ache  for  the 
dark  house  and  the  long  sleep — there  is  exhibited, 
in  its  noblest  form,  the  immortal  influence  of 
Athens. 

The  dervish  in  the  Arabian  tale  did  not  hes- 
itate to  abandon  to  his  comrade  the  camels  with 
their  load  of  jewels  and  gold,  while  he  retained 
the  casket  of  that  juice  which  enabled  him  to 
behold  at  a  glance  all  the  hidden  riches  of  the 
universe.  Surely  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  no  external  advantage  is  to  be  compared 
■with  that  purification  of  the  intellectual  eye 
which  gives  us  to  contemplate  the  infinite  wealth 
of  the  mental  world ;  all  the  hoarded  treasures  of 
the  primeval  dynasties,  all  the  shapeless  ore 
of  its  yet  unexplored  mines.  This  is  the  gift  of 
Athens   to   man.     Her   freedom   and   her   power 

249  N 


THE   BEST   OF  THE   WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

have  for  more  than  twenty  centuries  been  an- 
nihilated; her  people  have  degenerated  into  timid 
slaves;  her  language  into  a  barbarous  jargon; 
her  temples  have  been  given  up  to  the  successive 
depredations  of  Romans,  Turks,  and  Scotchmen ;  ^ 
but  her  intellectual  empire  is  imperishable.  And, 
when  those  who  have  rivaled  her  gi-eatness  shaU 
have  shared  her  fate:  when  civilization  and 
knowledge  shall  have  fixt  their  abode  in  distant 
continents;  when  the  scepter  shall  have  passed 
away  from  England;  when  perhaps,  travelers 
from  distant  regions  shall  in  vain  labor  to  de- 
cipher on  some  moldering  pedestal  the  name  of 
our  proudest  chief;  shall  hear  savage  hymns 
chanted  to  some  misshaped  idol  over  the  ruined 
dome  of  our  proudest  temple:  and  shall  see  a 
single  naked  fisherman  wash  his  nets  in  the  river 
of  the  ten  thousand  masts — her  influence  and  her 
glory  will  still  survive — fresh  in  eternal  youth, 
exempt  from  mutability  and  decay,  immortal  as 
the  intellectual  principle  from  which  they  de- 
rived their  origin,  and  over  which  they  exercise 
their  control. 

■A  reference  to  the  "Elgin  marbles,"  which  were  taken 
to  London  from  Athens  by  Lord  Elgin,  a  Scotchman,  \n 
1801-1803.  These  works  comprize  what  had  survived  it 
the  Bculptnral  decorations  of  the  Parthenon,  and  were  eJt- 
ecuted  under  Phidias  about  440  B.O.  They  are  now  in  the 
British  Musetim. 


250 


LORD  MACAULAY 


VI 


THE  PATHOS  OF  BYRON'S  LIFE* 

The  pretty  fable  by  -nhich  the  Duchess  of 
Orlear.d  illustrates  the  character  of  her  son,  the 
regent,  might,  with  little  change,  be  applied  to 
Byron.  All  the  fairies,  save  one,  had  been  bidden 
to  his  cradle.  All  the  gossips  had  been  profuse 
of  their  gifts.  One  had  bestowed  nobility,  an- 
other genius,  a  third  beauty.  The  malignant  elf 
who  had  been  uninvited  came  last,  and,  unable 
to  reverse  what  her  sistei's  had  done  for  their 
favorite,  had  niixt  up  a  curse  with  every  blessing. 

He  was  sprung  of  a  house,  ancient  indeed  and 
noble,  but  degraded  and  impoverished  by  a  series 
of  crimes  and  follies,  A\duch  had  attained  a  scan- 
dalous publicity.  The  kinsman  whom  he  suc- 
ceeded had  died  poor,  and,  but  for  merciful 
judges,  A.ould  have  died  upon  the  gallows.  The 
young  peer  had  great  intellectual  powers;  yet 
there  was  an  unsound  part  in  his  mind.  He  had 
naturally  a  generous  and  tender  heart;  but  his 
temper  was  irritable  and  wayward.  He  had  a 
head  which  statuaries  loved  to  copy,  and  a  foot 
the  deformity  of  which  the  beggars  in  the  street 
mimicked.  Distinguished  at  once  by  the  strength 
and  by  the  weakness  of  his  intellect,  affectionate 
yet  perverse,  a  poor  lord,  and  a  handsome  crip- 
ple, he  required,  if  ever  man  required,  the  firmest 

•From  the  essay  on  Moore's  "Life  of  Byron,"  contributed 
to   the    Edinburgh    Review    in    1831. 

251 


THE   BEST  OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

and  the  most  judicious  training.  But,  capricious- 
ly as  nature  had  dealt  with  him,  the  relative 
to  "whom  the  office  of  forming  his  character  was 
entrusted  was  more  capricious  still.  She  passed 
from  paroxysms  of  rage  to  paroxysms  of  fond- 
ness. At  one  time  she  stifled  him  with  her 
caresses,  at  another  time  she  insulted  his  de- 
formity. 

He  came  into  the  world,  and  the  world  treated 
him  as  his  mother  treated  him — sometimes  with 
kindness,  sometimes  with  severity,  never  with 
justice.  It  indulged  him  without  discrimination, 
and  punished  him  without  discrimination.  He 
was  truly  a  spoilt  child;  not  merely  the  spoilt 
child  of  his  parents,  but  the  spoilt  child  of  na- 
ture, the  spoilt  child  of  fortune,  the  spoilt  child 
of  fame,  the  spoilt  child  of  society.  His  first 
poems  ^  were  received  with  a  contempt  which, 
feeble  as  they  were,  they  did  not  absolutely  de- 
serve. The  poem  which  he  published  on  his 
returns  from  his  travels  *  was,  on  the  other  hand, 
extolled  far  above  its  merits.  At  twenty-four 
he  found  himself  on  the  highest  pinnacle  of  lit- 
erary fame,  with  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Southey, 
and  a  crowd  of  other  distinguished  writers,  be- 
neath his  feet.  There  is  scarcely  an  instance 
in  history  of  so  sudden  a  rise  to  so  dizzy  an 
eminence. 

Everything  fhat  could  stimulate,  and  every- 
thing that   could   gratify  the   strongest  propen- 

'The  "Hours  of  Idleness,"  published  in  1807  and  severcls 
criticized  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  —  probaWy  by  Lord 
Brougham. 

«The  first  two  cantos  of  "Childe  Harold"  were  published 
\m  1812. 

252 


LORD  MACAULAY 


sibilities  of  our  nature — the  gaze  of  a  hundred 
drawing-rooms,  the  acclamations  of  the  v;hole 
nation,  the  applause  of  applauded  men,  the  love 
of  the  loveliest  women — all  this  world,  and  the 
glory  of  it,  were  at  once  offered  to  a  young  man, 
to  whom  nature  had  given  violent  passions,  and 
whom  education  had  never  taught  to  control 
them.  He  lived  as  many  men  live  who  have  no 
similar  excuses  to  plead  for  his  faults.  But  his 
countrymen  and  his  countrywomen  would  love  him 
and  admire  him.  They  were  resolved  to  see  in 
his  excesses  only  the  flash  and  outbreak  of  the 
same  fiery  mind  which  glowed  in  his  poetry.  He 
attacked  religion ;  yet  in  religious  circles  his 
*iame  was  mentioned  with  fondness,  and  in  many 
veligious  publications  his  works  were  censured 
ivith  singular  tenderness.  He  lampooned  the 
Prince  Regent;  yet  he  could  not  alienate  the 
Tories.  Everything,  it  seems,  was  to  be  forgiven 
to  youth,  rank,  and  genius. 

Then  came  the  reaction.  Society,  capricious 
in  its  indignation  as  it  had  been  capricious  in 
its  fondness,  flew  into  a  rage  with  its  froward 
and  petted  darling.  He  had  been  worshiped  with 
an  irrational  idolatry.  He  was  persecuted  with 
an  irrational  fury.  Much  has  been  written  about 
those  unhappy  domestic  occurrences  which  de- 
cided the  fate  of  his  life.  Yet  nothing  ever  was 
positively  known  to  the  public  but  this — that  hfl 
quarreled  with  his  lady,  and  that  she  refused 
to  live  with  him.  There  have  been  hints  in 
abundance,  and  shrugs  and  shakings  of  the  head, 
and  "Well,  well,  we  know,"  and  "We  could  il 
we  would,"  and  "If  we  list  to  speak,"  and 
"There  be  that  might  an  they  list."    But  we  are 


253 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

not  aware  that  there  is  before  the  world,  sub- 
stantiated by  credible,  or  even  by  tangible  evi- 
dence, a  single  fact  indicating  that  Lord  Byron 
was  more  to  blame  than  any  other  man  who  is 
on  bad  terms  with  his  wife.  The  professional 
men  whom  Lady  Byron  consulted  were  undoubt- 
edly of  the  opinion  that  she  ought  not  to  live 
with  her  husband.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  they  foiTned  that  opinion  without  hearing 
both  sides.  We  do  not  say,  we  do  not  mean  to 
insinuate,  that  Lady  Byron  was  in  any  respect 
to  blame.  We  think  that  those  who  condemn 
her  on  the  evidence  which  is  now  before  the 
public  are  as  rash  as  those  who  condemn  her 
husband.  We  will  not  pronounce  any  judgment; 
we  can  not,  even  in  our  own  minds,  form  any 
judgment  on  a  transaction  which  is  so  imper- 
fectly known  to  us.  It  would  have  been  well 
if,  at  the  time  of  the  separation,  all  those  who 
knew  as  little  about  the  matter  then  as  we  know 
about  it  now,  had  shown  that  forbearance,  which, 
under  such  circumstances,  is  but  common  justice. 
We  know  no  spectacle  so  ridiculous  as  the  Brit- 
ish public  in  one  of  its  periodical  lifts  of  morali- 
ty. In  general,  elopements,  divorces,  and  family 
quarrels  pass  with  little  notice.  We  read  the 
scandal,  talk  about  it  for  a  day,  and  forget  it. 
But  once  in  six  or  seven  years,  our  virtue  becomes 
outrageous.  We  can  not  suffer  the  laws  of  reli- 
gion and  decency  to  be  violated.  We  must  make 
a  stand  against  vice.  We  must  teach  libertines 
that  the  English  people  appreciate  the  imp>5r- 
tanee  of  domestic  ties.  Accordingly,  some  un- 
fortunate man,  in  no  respect  more  depraved  than 
hundreds  whose  offenses  have  been  treated  with 

254 


LORD  MACAULAY 


lenity,  is  sinj^led  out  as  an  expiatory  sacrifice. 
If  he  has  cliildren,  tliey  are  to  be  taken  from 
him.  If  he  has  a  profession,  he  is  to  be  driven 
from  it.  He  is  cut  by  the  higher  orders,  and 
hissed  by  the  lower.  He  is,  in  truth,  a  sort  of 
whipping-boy,  by  whose  vicarious  agonies  all  the 
other  transgressors  of  the  same  class  are,  it  is 
supposed,  sufficiently  chastised.  We  refiect  very 
complacently  on  our  own  severity,  and  compare 
with  great  pride  the  high  standard  of  morals 
established  in  England,  with  the  Parisian  laxity. 
At  length  our  anger  is  satiated.  Our  victim  is 
ruined  and  heart-broken.  And  our  virtue  goes 
quietly  to  sleep  for  seven  years  more. 

It  is  clear  that  those  vices  which  destroy  do- 
mestic happiness  ought  to  be  as  much  as  possible 
represt.  It  is  equally  clear  that  they  can  not 
be  represt  by  penal  legislation.  It  is  therefore 
right  and  desirable  that  public  opinion  should 
be  directed  against  them.  But  it  should  be  di- 
rected against  them  uniformly,  steadily,  and  tem- 
pei-ately,  not  by  sudden  fits  and  starts.  There 
should  be  one  weight  and  one  measure.  Declama- 
tion is  always  an  objectionable  mode  of  punish^ 
ment.  It  is  the  resource  of  judges  too  indolent 
and  hasty  to  investigate  facts,  and  to  discrim- 
inate nicely  between  shades  of  guilt.  It  is  an 
irrational  practise,  even  Avhcn  adopted  by  mil- 
itary tribunals.  When  adopted  by  the  tribunal 
of  public  opinion,  it  is  infinitely  more  irrational. 
It  is  good  that  a  certain  portion  of  disgrace 
should  constantly  attend  on  certain  bad  actions. 
But  it  is  not  good  that  the  offenders  merely  have 
to  stand  the  risks  of  a  lottery  of  infamy  that 
ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  should  escape; 


255 


THE   BEST   OF  THE  WORLD'S   CLASSICS 

and  that  the  hundredth,  pei'haps  the  most  in- 
nocent of  the  hundred,  should  pay  for  all.  .  .  . 
We  can  not  even  now  retrace  those  events 
without  feeling  something  of  what  was  felt  by 
the  nation  when  it  was  first  known  that  the  grave 
\iad  closed  over  so  much  sorrow  and  so  much 
glory — something  of  what  was  felt  by  those  who 
saw  the  hearse,  with  its  long  train  of  coaches, 
turn  slowly  northward,  leaving  behind  it  that 
cemetery,  which  had  been  consecrated  by  the 
dust  of  so  many  great  poets,  but  of  which  the 
doors  were  closed  against  all  that  remained  of 
Byron.  We  well  remember  that,  on  that  day, 
rigid  moralists  could  not  refrain  from  weeping 
for  one  so  young,  so  illustrious,  so  unhappy, 
gifted  with  such  rare  gifts  and  tried  by  such 
strong  temptations.  It  is  unnecessary  to  make 
any  reflections.  The  history  carries  its  moral 
with  it.  Our  age  has  indeed  been  fruitful  of 
warnings  to  the  eminent,  and  of  consolation  to 
the  obscure.  Two  men  have  died  within  our 
recollection,  who  at  a  time  of  life  at  which  few 
people  have  completed  their  education,  had  raised 
themselves,  each  in  his  own  department,  to  the 
height  of  glory.  One  of  them  died  at  Longwood,* 
the  other  at  Missolonghi." 

"  The  seaport  village  on  the  island  of  St.  Helena  in  •which 
Napoleon  died. 

»<•  MisBolonghi,  where  Byron  died,  lies  on  the  Gulf  ot  Pat- 
ras,  on  the  western  coast  of  northern  Greece. 

END  OF  VOL.  V. 


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